


Kiss the Cook

by mambo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Annoyed Manager Sam, Bartender Bucky, Bartenders, Chef Steve, Food And Beverage Manager Sharon, Loki the Brony - Freeform, M/M, Maria the Police Officer, Pastry Chef Peggy, Pining, Restaurants, Slow Burn, Tony is still a billionaire, Waitress Darcy, restaurant AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:50:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 28,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4651146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mambo/pseuds/mambo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Former Top Chef contestant Steve Rogers opens a restaurant with his best friend, Sam Wilson.</p>
<p>And everything is great, except for Steve's giant crush on their new bartender.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tom Collins

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a fluffy fun thing that I'm writing short vignettes for as a stress-relief sort of thing. It's never gonna be plot heavy, and never gonna stray from fluffy. It's just for fun. Hope you enjoy!

The new bartender is going to be an issue.

See, the thing is, Steve’s worked from the ground up. He’s been cooking since he was ten and his mom decided that it was time for him to learn to make his own grilled cheese when she had to work late. It wasn’t long until he began washing dishes and bussing tables at Sam’s mom’s place for a small paycheck after school before it was strictly legal. At sixteen he convinced his mom to let him drop out of high school, and he got his GED while being enrolled in culinary school. He graduated first in his class, and has held just about every position in a kitchen in the twelve years since he quit school.

And how he’s 28, still skinny and asthmatic, and wears a hearing aid, but he has tattoos covering his arms and piercings up and down each ear. He came in third on the 15th season of _Top Chef_ , and won more Quickfires than any other chef, which left him with $65,000—enough to start a restaurant with Sam. (Of course, after the trip for two to the south of France Steve also won.) So Sam works as a manager, and Steve is the executive chef of Howling Commando, an American fine dining establishment in Brooklyn, New York.

But the bartender is going to be an issue.

“Ah, heard you were expeditin’ tonight,” Bucky says, handing Steve a drink only moments after he walked into the bar. The bar is made of old wood, one of the few things he and Sam kept in-tact from the original structure of the building they bought. It’s long and dark, and behind are panels of mirrors with wood separating each pane of glass. The lights from above make the stacks of bottles sparkle behind Bucky, who is smiling with the drink in his hand. “You want a Tom Collins, right? I’m gonna feel like a real ass if you wanted somethin’ different tonight.”

“Uh, I wanted a Tom Collins,” Steve says, trying to step a little out of the light as he takes the glass so Bucky won’t notice the brush creeping up his cheeks. He always grabs a drink before he starts expediting. It helps him loosen up a little, and the Tom Collins is refreshing in the warm kitchen. And there’s something a little special that Bucky adds in—Steve’s not sure what. Maybe elderflower? Either way, his drinks have Steve so spoiled—most young bartenders don’t even know what a Tom Collins is. But Bucky made it, and made it well the first time Steve asked at his interview.

Meanwhile, Bucky pretends his boss isn’t the most awkward human in the restaurant business—or at least Steve assumes that he is—and smiles. “You gotta tell me how you landed on this drink sometime.” Bucky’s hair is slicked back, and his eyes are bright and blue underneath the lights, and Steve entertains a brief but incredibly inappropriate thought about opening the buttons of Bucky’s black vest with his teeth.

And that’s why the new bartender is an issue.

“I, uh, sure,” Steve stutters out. He’s not usually _this_ inarticulate. When he’s in the kitchen he’s precise and astute. Around his friends, Steve is sarcastic and glib. Abut when he’s with Bucky, he’s a marshmallow, and not like, a beautiful marshmallow-yogurt sauce garnishing a semifreddo. No, he’s a slightly stale, store-bought marshmallow that the dog has gnawed on a bit before a four year-old picked off the floor, only to have their mother grab it from their hand and throw it in the trash. “I need to, uh…” Steve starts, gesturing towards the kitchen with his drink, spilling a little onto his hand in the process. “Aw, shit,” Steve says, but before he can do a thing, Bucky is taking the drink from Steve with one hand, and wiping the spill from Steve’s hand with a black cocktail napkin.

Bucky’s fingers brush Steve’s skin as he pulls away, and Steve thinks that his sous chef could grab him and serve him up with some drawn butter, because he’s as red as a boiled lobster.

Food jokes. Ha ha ha.

“There ya go,” Bucky says. “All better.” He crumbles up the black napkin, and tosses it into the trash bin beneath the bar. 

Steve should thank him, or say something cute, but he’s just sort of gaping at his problematic bartender, who everyone loves, and who Steve maybe loves most of all.

“Good luck over there tonight,” Bucky says. “Let me know if you want a refill for once.” He winks at Steve, and then Sharon is calling for Bucky’s attention from the other side of the bar, and so Steve grabs his drink from where Bucky left it on the bar, and heads to the kitchen.

**…**

Cooking comes naturally to Steve. He loves the process—the creation and artistry that comes into creating a dish, finding the perfect flavor profile. Coming up with the menu for Howling Commando was probably the most fun he’s ever had, just puttering around the kitchen and making Sam and Sharon try a hundred different sauces.

But expediting? That’s a different story.

It’s loud and hard, and you’re tackling a thousand different things at once, and none of them involve sauce. So by the time he calls out the last orders of the night—one pork chop with hard cider glaze and a key lime sorbet—he’s drenched in sweat. It was a busy Thursday night, which is great since they’re just getting to six months and are still getting great buzz and crowds. But Steve feels disgusting when it’s over—he practically has to wring his floppy hair out in the bathroom. Once he’s changed, Steve heads back out and tells himself it’s because he needs to go over the books. But he’s just so tired, and all he wants is to see his bartender’s friendly face again before he crashes for the night.

So he walks back through the dining room, stopping to chat up a few late tables who recognize him as one of the owners. They’ve been featured quite a bit in the media, and there are still people who come up to Steve raging about how he didn’t win _Top Chef_ —who he tells as kindly as he can that the duck really _was_ overcooked, and that Gail wasn’t lying. They mostly come to Howling Commando looking for a selfie, which Steve is more than happy to oblige. Posing for the camera doesn’t come naturally to him, but social media is powerful, and Steve needs to do whatever he can to make this restaurant a success. But all that schmoozing leaves him a bit calmer and drier as he heads back to the bar.

Though apparently, he doesn’t look as good as he feels, because Bucky looks up from the soda he’s refilling, furrows his eyebrows and asks, “Rough night?”

Their bar is open later than the kitchen on weekends, but since it’s a Thursday, things have calmed down. There are a few people finishing up their meals at the high top tables near the bar, but no one at the bar itself. Quiet jazz music plays in the background, and it’s everything Steve ever dreamed it’d be.

“That obvious?” Steve asks, too tired to remember to be embarrassed.

Bucky smiles, eyes kind and crinkling at the edges, and sets the soda down on the side of the bar for a waiter to come pick it up. “Another Tom Collins?” he suggests in lieu of answering, but still very much answering.

“God no,” Steve says. “I sweat so much back there that I’m sure even a few sips will get me completely trashed, and that’s the last thing I need tonight.”

Bucky exhales, looking almost fondly at Steve. “You trust me?” he asks, leaning forward with a delicate little smirk.

Steve straightens up. “Yes,” he says, almost surprising himself with how clear and strong the word I.

“Good,” Bucky responds. “Turn around.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. Bucky matches, and something bubbly warms up in Steve’s stomach like a familiar stew. “Please don’t poison me,” Steve says before turning around on his bar stool.

“Wouldn’t dare,” he hears Bucky say from behind.

It only takes a minute or two of clanking and shaking behind him before Bucky is clearing his throat and tapping Steve’s shoulder. Steve turns around and looks at the bright pink monstrosity, Bucky has just finished pouring into a tall glass in front of him. It’s sort of white on the top, and gets progressively pinker down to the bottom of the glass. There’s an orange slice on the rim, and it’s terrifying.

“It’s a virgin dragon berry happy fizz,” Bucky says. “And it’s gonna be real hydratin’, so give it a try, okay?”

It’s with some intense trepidation that Steve takes the drink, picks it up, and gives it a tentative little sip, just enough to wet his tongue.

And his eyes widen. It’s good. Really good.

Bucky’s smirk widens into a grin as he takes in Steve’s expression. “It’s basil,” he says before Steve can ask. “That’s what cuts the sweetness,” he adds as Steve takes another sip. “It’s mostly fresh dragon berry juice, with a little lemon for tartness. Then I add club soda and the basil, cut real thin so it look more like sparkles than an herb.”

“Why not a leaf?” Steve asks. Basil in mixed drinks isn’t a new thing—in fact, they have one on the menu here. But it’s not usually used in the way Bucky used it here.

Bucky looks down for a second, brows furrowing just a little. Then he says, “I started makin’ these when I was bartendin’ for a caterin’ company. We did a lotta parties for it kids, and I got real sick of makin’ Shirley Temples.” He looks up at Steve through his long lashes, face drawn, more reserved. Steve realizes with a bit of a shock that Bucky is expecting Steve to laugh at him.

“Is that why happy is in the title?” Steve asks instead.

The question opens Bucky back up. “Yeah,” he says. “Gotta get those kids’ attention somehow. I know you don’t believe in kid’s menus or gimmicky names, which I understand of course, but mixology is a bit different than creating a restaurant’s food menu.”

Steve’s halfway through taking a sip when he realizes where Bucky must know that from, and what that means. “No,” Steve says, firm. “You didn’t.”

Bucky, Steve realizes, is actually turning red as he pretends to focus on polishing up a martini shaker. “I may’ve, uh, been rooting for you the whole show.” Steve groans, and Bucky is red, _really_ red, Steve Rogers red as he says, all in a rush, “I’m not, like, some fuckin’ groupie. I swear that when I applied here I wasn’t even aware that you uh, but well I sort of did but I didn’t _really_ … Like I saw your name, but I didn’t think it would be you _you_ and shit and ugh…” He groans, setting down the martini shaker and running a hand back through his hair. “Please don’t fire me.”

Steve doesn’t realize how hard he’s been laughing until he stops abruptly to take a good look at Bucky.

And his stomach drops.

Bucky is looking down, grimacing, worse than that time he got reamed by a customer that Sam ended up having to call the cops on, since they wouldn’t leave. “I’m sorry,” Steve says. “I wasn’t making fun, or at least I didn’t mean to.” He adds, “And I’d never fire you, or at least, not if you keep doing what you’ve been doing so far.”

Bucky shakes his head. “No, _I’m_ sorry. I’m such an ass. I told myself I wasn’t gonna mention anythin’ because I’m not a dork, I’m a _professional_. But of course I opened my big dump trap the first time we really talk.”

“You say dork and professional as if they’re mutually exclusive,” Steve responds, because frankly, he has nothing better to say. There are several ways he could dissect what Bucky just said—namely, that Steve hasn’t ever really _tried_ to talk to Bucky before. He hired him, has gotten his Tom Collinses from him, and has otherwise ignored him. Which makes Steve a dick. A huge dick.

But apparently, it was an okay thing to say, because Bucky’s shoulders relax, and he makes eye contact with Steve again. “I do really love this job,” he says.

“It shows,” Steve responds. “And uh, we should talk sometime. I think you could, if you wanted to, think about some mixed drinks we could add to the house menu that don’t have alcohol for designated drivers, or people who don’t drink. Or even kids. And the season menus that Brock made when he was here… Suck. Like Brock did when he was here. So, if you wanted to have a go, we can talk about it.”

Bucky’s grin is huge, and encompassing, and Steve is swept up and can’t help but match the expression.

“Whenever,” Bucky says.

“Right now?” Steve counters, and wishes he could stuff the words back into his mouth. He’s so presumptuous. Bucky, like Steve, has worked a full shift, and probably wants—nay, needs—to get home. But before he can apologize, Bucky is nodding. “Really?” Steve asks.

“What, you gotta go to bed?”

Steve wets his lips with his tongue—and his unhelpful mind tells him that Bucky’s eyes follow the movement—and smiles. “Nah,” he says. “We’ll see who gets tired out first. Show me what you’ve got.”

**…**

Sam has been running the books in the back all fucking night. It’s been good news so far. Thankfully. But he’s a little irked at the thought of his employees leaving the lights on in the bar all night when no one but Sam was there.

But then he hears laughter—familiar, obnoxious laughter—and when he turns the corner he sees his business partner and his bartender with their heads bent together over a notebook, with paper and half-full glasses all around them.

“Steve?” Sam asks. “Bucky?”

The _what the hell_ is implied.

They both look up, but also look unsurprised to see anyone else, even though it’s past 3 in the morning. “Hey Sam,” Steve says with a dopey smile and almost unhinged enthusiasm. “We’re making a new seasonal drink menu for fall, and trying to figure out the best way to spike pumpkin juice. We’ve got a great thing with a toasted marshmallow going, and I think—“

“Too late,” Sam says. “I can’t.”

Both Steve and Bucky smile, and Bucky steals a glance over to Steve to watch his bosses expression, his own looking unguarded and tender.

And there are a lot of things that Sam could say. Hell, there are a lot of things Sam should probably say, or maybe even yell. But he just shakes his head and says, “Carry on,” as he walks out the door, locking it behind him.


	2. Chili

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky gets a great write-up for the changes he's made to Howling Commando's bar.

**_Howling Commando: A Bar Worth Going To_ **

_Posted by Derrick Rotter_

_Posted 4 days ago. 34 comments. Facebook shares: 12. Twitter shares: 15._

_Though Howling Commando has been in business for several months, it’s only just recently garnered attention for its burgeoning bar scene. And it has one man to thank._

_I walked into the Howling Commando early on a Monday night. I ordered some basics—Howling Commando recently created a menu of unique American tapas that can only be ordered at the bar—and began my interview. James “Bucky” Barnes, 29, has overhauled the Howling Commando’s drink menu and created a fun, warm atmosphere even before the dining room starts to fill up. This former veteran turned mixologist owns the reclaimed wooden bar with a casual grace. He wears his dark hair slicked back, and has a smile and wink for every patron that makes you feel like you’re in on his inside joke, a member of the world he’s inhabiting._

_But more than charm, Barnes is a genius mixologist. He has been working with herbs, unusual fruits and even vegetables to concoct a new menu of non-alcoholic drinks that either simulate the flavor of alcohol, or that find new, interesting ways to tickle the tongue._

_“People don’t drink for all sorts of reasons,” Barnes told me as he placed a clear drink in front of me. For all intensive purposes, it looked like a gin and tonic. But when I tasted his Jasmine Joker, I was surprised to find that it_ tasted _like a gin and tonic, even a burn that Barnes assured me came from adding a little pepper. “That doesn’t mean they shouldn’t go out, or have fun at a bar, or only have soda at dinner.” He paused, then added. “I’m trying to figure out some new stuff out. I want to make a diabetes-friendly menu with both alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks. I’m hoping I can roll that out in the next six months. So many “virgin” drinks are just daiquiri slushes without rum, barely different than a Slurpee.”_

_When I finish my food and the Jasmine Joker, he begins making me one of his biggest draws: The Turkey Twister. No actual turkey included, this Thanksgiving-themed cocktail includes a yam liquor created for Howling Commando by a local distillery—and it’s better than it sounds!—with a top coating of torched marshmallow fluff, burnt to order. What should be a hot mess ends up becomes a toasted sweet beginning with a warm kick, better than your mother’s sweet potato casserole. It’s a new addition, one of several on a popular seasonal menu. After a few sinful, wonderful sips of my Turkey Twister, I asked him more about his non-alcoholic drinks._

_“What if someone wants one with a shot of something in them?” I asked._

_He pursed his lips. “I mean, if they really wanted, I wouldn’t say no. But these drinks are balanced, they have a flavor profile.You wouldn’t come into the dining room and order raw oysters with A1 steak sauce. It doesn’t go. And alcohol doesn’t go in these drinks.” He finished torching a round of Turkey Twisters—one person ordered theirs burnt, and the fluff was black on top. He caught me looking and added, “More people like them this way than you’d think. It’s half a dessert by itself, but it’s real good with Steve [Rogers]’s signature beignets.” He grins. “We’ve got a bar-sized order, if you wanna try?”_

_After that, how could I not?_

_All of Rogers’ food is scrumptious. In the months since I ate there last, Rogers’ menu has blossomed._

_“Everything has to flow,” Barnes said after he placed my dessert order. “We wanted to make sure everything you could order at the bar could be brought to the table and pair well. The two of us had a bunch of tastings, just plates of food and drinks.” What a lucky guy, getting to eat all of that food. “It’s all in the details. Steve and Sam [Wilson] think about everything, even over at the bar. They gave me a list of ingredients they can get locally, and then they trust me to create things that come from the same farms as what’s being made in the kitchen.” He sighs. “I mean, I can’t get everything. Lemons and limes still need to be imported, but a lot of what I try to put in the glass comes from New York. We’re even trying to get more local liquor, like with the distilled yam in the Turkey Twister. And of course, we have mostly local brews on tap.”_

_It is apparent at a glance that Barnes loves his job. He’s in his element here, getting orders and making creations that are half-science and half-art. But it can’t last forever—can it? “What’s next?” Bucky repeats, echoing my question for him. “Gingerbread, maybe. Definitely some winter berries. Whortleberries, probably.” When I mention that I had hoped to hear some more about his career, he just laughed. “I ain’t leaving any time soon,” he said. “Steve really took a chance on me, and I don’t know any other place that would allow me this much creativity. I’m lucky to be here, and I want to stay. Best job, great drinks, fantastic boss, and an awesome crew. What else could you want?”_

_I mention another Turkey Twister, and he was happy to oblige._

**…**

Sam walks into the office, and Steve only just closes the browser window in time.

Or at least he thinks he does. Seems like Sam snuck a peek, because he’s only three steps into the room when he raises an eyebrow. “Again?” he asks, and okay. Valid point.

“Derrick Rotter is a big deal,” Steve says. “People listen to him, and he gushed about the bar.”

“Bucky, really,” Sam says, sitting on the edge of the desk they share in their cramped office. “Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t ask Bucky out for a drink after all that.” Steve frowns, and Sam chuckles. “I asked him, and Bucky says he left without leaving his number or anything, so you’re in the clear.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve responds, and Sam snorts. “Anyhow,” Steve begins, “I think we should put a picture of Bucky on the website.” He’s trying to sound nonchalant, but he’s not sure it’s working. “Maybe add a write-up about the bar to go with it, explaining about what Bucky’s doing, and our mission. We can use quotes from this review, and the other ones that’ve been coming in. He’s gotten so much positive buzz, brought a lot of customers in.” He’s looking at his email, but he can feel Sam staring daggers at the side of his head.

Then Sam says, “I agree,” and the twelve arguments Steve was about to make die on his tongue. 

“Okay,” Steve says after a beat. Then, “Okay,” he repeats, because did Sam really agree so quickly? “Perfect, so uh, I’ll get my camera, and—“

“Just promise me one thing,” Sam says. Steve looks up over the computer at him. His smirk is obscene. “You won’t make him take off his shirt.”

Steve groans, and at dinner a ghost pepper somehow magically appears in Sam’s chili. He knows why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can find me at whtaft.tumblr.com.


	3. Béarnaise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has Steve's back.

Steve is stirring a nice béarnaise sauce when Bucky walks into the kitchen. Heads turn—Bucky is tentative, and that doesn’t work well in a running kitchen, even if it’s getting to be later in the evening. Steve is about to say something when Bucky catches his eye, and hassles over towards him.

“Hey,” Steve says, letting his whisk rest against the side of the silver bowl he’s been holding, and putting the bowl on the counter. “Don’t think you should be here without a hairnet.” He’s smiling, but Bucky isn’t, doesn’t even crack a pity smile.

“Steve,” Bucky says, and Steve hates himself for how much he likes hearing Bucky say his name. “There’s a guy at the bar… Brock?” Steve’s smile drops. He grabs the counter behind him. “He asked for you, but uh, I remember you sayin’ somethin’ about the former bartender…”  He trails off, and doesn’t meet Steve’s eyes.

“Oh,” Steve says, shrinking in on himself, moving closer to the counter. “I, uh, don’t really—“

“I told him that I didn’t think you were on shift, but that I’d check.” He gives Steve a little smile, and Steve perks up a little, stands a little straighter. “So maybe exit through the back tonight, ‘kay?” Steve nods, and Bucky reaches out and gives Steve’s shoulder a little squeeze before walking away.

It’s good, Steve thinks, to know that his staff has his back.

He goes back to his bowl of béarnaise. He grabs a clean spoon off the counter, dips it in and licks the sauce off. Though he wasn’t anticipating it, the sauce tastes perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one, but hints at the ~past~. As always: whtaft.tumblr.com.


	4. Croque-Madame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People kissing each other on the cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is almost as long as the rest of the fic combined. Whoops. Should've probably split it in two, but life's short. Sorry for the wonky chapter lengths thus far. They probably won't get regulated any time soon.

Lettering by [softbrobucky](softbrobucky.tumblr.com).

Peggy is at the bar.

This isn’t a drill—Peggy is _at the bar_.

“You’ve been complaining for ages that she hasn’t been around, and now that she’s here, you’re hiding in the freezer,” Sam says, arms crossed as Steve pulls an icebox cake from its shelf in the walk-in, checking to see if it set overnight. Of course it did, but it’s always good to double-check.

“I’m not hiding,” Steve lies. “I’m working. Can’t help it if Peggy got here while I’m working.”

“Peggy is working, too,” Sam reminds him. “On _our_ dime.” Which is, admittedly, true. Peggy pays for the tickets to/from New York, but when she’s in Howling Commando, she gets paid an hourly fee. Steve met Peggy at the Culinary Institute of America, where he studied culinary, and Peggy went pastry. They had class together, roomed together, slept together, and rose through the ranks following graduation. They never really outlined their relationship to one another was until Peggy got an offer to be the executive pastry chef at a new restaurant in DC. The opportunity to create a menu from scratch was too big to give up, so they broke-up. They Skype, though, and text pretty constantly. And every season, Peggy comes up to New York to consult on Howling Commando’s dessert menu. But she couldn’t come this summer, so this is the first time she’s been at the restaurant since Bucky started working. Steve doesn’t know why the thought of the two of them meeting scares him so much, but it does.

But Sam has a point.

“Fine,” Steve acquiesces, sighing as he pushes the cake back onto the freezer shelf.

“Good,” Sam responds. “Because I think Peggy was about to show Bucky those pictures from after your first-year flambé exam—“

The pan nearly falls as Steve runs to the bar.

**…**

He was too late to keep Peggy from showing Bucky the eyebrowless photos. But it turns out to be a blessing in disguise, as between bouts of laughter, the three of them come up with a fall dessert menu featuring modernized flambés using Bucky’s liquors. Steve’s favorite ends up being their cranberry pecan flambé with balsamic glaze and marshmallow foam, but Bucky prefers the cinnamon-whiskey pumpkin flambé served with vanilla sea salt ice cream. In fact, Bucky keeps chasing Steve around the kitchen with the ice cream, trying to convince him that it’s better flash frozen with liquid nitrogen than traditionally.

“C’mon Steve,” he says. “It’s saltier this way.”

“Like your personality,” Steve says as Bucky lunges forward, just narrowly missing Steve’s mouth with the spoon. Steve ducks, and looks up at Peggy.

Peggy, who is smirking, red lips twisting and brown eyes sparkling. She’s looking great, better than she did before she went to DC. Her make-up is perfect, her hair a bit longer. Her outfit is sharp—a black, short-sleeve button down, blue skirt and tan heels. Of course, she’s wearing red lipstick.

“Steve,” Peggy says. They’re finishing up and they know it, just stalling for time at this point, not wanting their fun afternoon to end. “Can we go get something to eat? I have a few hours before my train leaves.”

Steve looks to Bucky, about to invite him to come along when Bucky drops his spoon in a sink, grabs a towel from the counter, and wipes his hands off. “I’ll finish cleanin' up and head back to the bar. I’m not sure Pietro’s equipped to deal with the lunch crowd by himself yet.” Pietro is their new bartender, a young guy who they hired to help out on Bucky’s shifts, now that Bucky has more duties around the restaurant. 

“Alright,” Steve says. “I’ll be back before the dinner rush.” Steve smiles, and Steve grins back. Then Peggy is behind Steve, hand on his elbow, and Bucky’s expression falters. Before Steve can ask why, Peggy says, “C’mon Steve, we haven’t got all day,” and is guiding him out of the kitchen, saying goodbye to Bucky as they go.

“The usual?” Peggy asks as the kitchen door swings shut behind them and she drops her hand from his elbow.

“Sure,” Steve responds, a little distracted. “Whatever you want.”

Peggy nudges his side and gives him a little searching look as she leads him out the door.

**…**

“So how are you?” Peggy asks, moments after she hands their server her menu. They’re at Peggy’s nearby favorite, a little French bistro with checkered tablecloths and a mean croque-madame.

“Great,” Steve says, then fearing that he came off flippant, adds, “Things’re really good, Pegs.”

“I believe you,” Peggy says, and Steve sags a little with relief—Peggy knows him better than anyone else, and she’d be able to see through his bull if he were lying. Steve reaches for his glass of pinot grigio and takes a big sip.

“Listen,” Peggy says, watching him drink. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“Shoot. Steve sets his glass down; his fingers are shaking, just a little.

“Steve,” Peggy repeats, voice business-like, but with a slight lilt that only Steve would know means she’s nervous. “You and I…” She pauses, looks down at her own glass of wine for a moment before looking back up at him. “We’ve always loved each other,” she says, not a confession, but a statement of fact. Steve nods. “But we’re not twenty anymore, not kids, and it didn’t work.” There’s nothing Steve can do but nod again, confused about where Peggy is going with this speech. “Steve.” Her voice is a little raspy, a little breathless. “I met someone.”

Steve lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding in. “Pegs,” he says. “That’s fantastic.” He smiles, and she grins back.

“I wanted to tell you in person,” she says. “In case…” In case Steve was upset. In case Steve was still in love with her.

Which Steve realizes he’s not.

“Peggy, really, I’m so happy for you.” He exhales. “And I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy.” He reaches across the table and takes her hand, give it a little squeeze. She squeezes back, and Steve draws back. “So who is it? Please don’t tell me you’ve fallen for Howard.”

Despite being one of Howling Commando’s principle backers, Steve has mixed feelings on Howard. He hasn’t seen him in a while—he works in DC—but if he even so much as looked at Peggy in the wrong way, Steve’d shove his foot so far up the guy’s ass that—

“Good Lord no,” Peggy says, laughing. “No, no, not Howard. Her name is Angie, Angie Martinelli.” Her expression changes, lips curling, her eyes far away and dreamy in a way Steve hasn’t seen her look before. “She’s an actress. We, um, meeting a bakery a few months ago.”

Steve finds himself rapt as Peggy describes their courtship, how Angie stuffed rolls in her purse on their first date. They eat their food, exchanging stories of restaurant life—Peggy served Tom Colicchio a few weeks ago, ironically—in both New York and DC. Steve is halfway through the story where Bucky saved their busboy Peter from the gnarliest spider any of them had ever seen when Peggy interrupts.

“Steve,” she says, before pausing to finish off the last of her glass of pinot grigio. They’re waiting for their desserts, but Peggy looks over Steve’s shoulder to their server, and points to the glass. They probably should’ve gotten a bottle, but it’s too late for that.

“Too much?” Steve asks, referring to his somewhat graphic description of the spider.

Peggy rolls her eyes, and their server stops off with their next round of drinks. “You know and I know that spiders don’t scare me.”

“Pegs, you didn’t see this—“

“Steve,” she interrupts again, and if it were anyone but Peggy, he’d tell them off. “I’ve been waiting and waiting for you to bring it up, but it seems like I’ll have to be the one to do it.” She pauses, gives Steve a searching look before asking, “How long have you and Bucky been sleeping together?”

Steve’s mouth drops.

“Oh, don’t look surprised,” Peggy says, swirling her drink around her glass. “Half, no, almost all of your stories have him as the hero, and I saw the way the two of you interacted in the kitchen.”

“Bucky and I aren’t…” Steve begins, slumping in his chair. He begins fiddling with the clasp of his watch, looking down rather than at Peggy. “But I guess I must be obvious, huh?”

“I’m sorry,” Peggy says. Steve looks up, and she’s looking at him with pursed lips and a furrowed brow. “I saw the two of you together and assumed.” She’s pitying him now, Steve can tell. “The two of you have such an easy rapport that it was easy to mistake.”

“He’s not—“ Steve begins, but Peggy interrupts _again_.

“The boy wanted to hand feed you ice cream,” she says, slow. “I wouldn’t give up quite yet.”

**…**

Things are still quiet when Steve and Peggy get back to Howling Commando. They head inside, stoping to say goodbye near the hostess stand. Bucky is standing tot he left of them, behind the bar, perking up and smiling as Steve gives him a little wave.

“Steve,” Peggy says, and Steve turns his attention back to her. “I’m so glad to see you’re doing well. Really.”

“I’d be better if you moved back here,” Steve responds, a little petulant.

“Well,” Peggy says. “This isn’t a sure thing, but Angie has an audition next month for a sitcom.” Steve raises his eyebrows. “If she books it, we may be relocating.”

“Back home?” Steve asks.

“Back home,” Peggy agrees. They grin at each other. “I’ll be in touch,” Peggy says, pulling Steve in close. He expects a hug, which he reciprocates, but then she’s leaning in, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to the corner of his lips. Even knowing that he doesn’t feel the same he used to for Peggy, it still makes Steve feel a little weak in the knees. It feels, for a second, like old times, when they were new and excited, with no roots or responsibilities. But then he recalls that he’s standing in his own restaurant, and Peggy is about to head back to DC. And now she has Angie, her tiny, peppy girlfriend. And Steve has Bu—

Howling Commando. He has his restaurant.

And then Peggy is pulling away. “Take care, Steve,” she says.

“Bye,” Steve responds, feeling helpless as she walks away.

After the door falls shut behind her, Steve shakes his head a little, trying to get himself back into the moment. He turns around just in time to see Bucky look down at the martini he starts to shake vigorously. Steve remembers, then, what Peggy said about the two of them, how she thinks Steve may stand a chance. Tentatively, Steve makes his way to the bar, taking a seat on one of the stools. Thankfully, Bucky is still shaking the drink, not paying attention to him, so he seems to miss the way Steve has to jump a little to get up on top of it.

When Bucky finishes shaking, he looks up. “What can I get you?” he asks, a little colder than Steve would’ve anticipated.

“Water?” Steve asks. Bucky raises an eyebrow. “I had a few glasses of wine at lunch,” Steve admits.

Steve watches Bucky pour the drink from the metallic shaker into a martini glass with a deft, practiced hand. Steve remembers pouring through catalogues, scanning each page until he thought his eyes would bleed. Looking at the pieces in Bucky’s hand makes him feel like he did something right. A couple of older women at the end of the bar titter, and Steve realizes that he’s not the only member of Bucky’s audience. If he weren’t pleasantly tipsy, he would’ve scowled. Instead, he just watches with a little smile as Bucky walks over to the women and places the drink in front of one, before heading back to Steve and filling up a glass of water for him.

When it’s full, Bucky sets it in front of Steve. But rather than placing it on a cocktail napkin, he hands one out to Steve with a little flourish. “To wipe the lipstick off,” Bucky says as Steve takes it from him. Steve feels the blood rushing to his cheeks as he brings the napkin to his lips and rubs. Bucky watches Steve as he does it, making it all the more embarrassing, but after a few seconds he says, “Looks good.” Bucky holds out his hand, and Steve drops the balled up napkin into it, and then Bucky tosses the napkin into the trash bin behind the bar.

“Thanks,” Steve says.

Bucky shrugs. “Couldn’t have my boss walking around looking like a lush.” Steve laughs, and Bucky smiles, but it’s still tense; Bucky’s eyes don’t crinkle like they do when he’s happy. Bucky starts to edge away, but Steve doesn’t want that. He says, “So” a little louder than he probably should, without really having anything else to add.

“So?” Bucky responds, looking back at Steve.

“That… was fun this afternoon,” Steve says. “The three of us in the kitchen.”

“Yeah.” Bucky pauses, his left hand on his hip. “So how long’ve the two of you been together?” he asks. “You and Peggy,” he clarifies. 

“We’re not,” Steve says. Bucky raises his eyebrows, skeptical. “Really!” he exclaims, maybe a bit too loud. “I mean,” he adds, calming down. “We used to, uh, have something.” He doesn’t quite meet Bucky’s eyes. “But it was always on and off, and we ended it for real two years ago. And now she’s got this girl she’s crazy for, and I…” Steve trails off, realizing that he made the same mistake. He can’t say he has Bucky, because he doesn’t, really. Just wants. And God, does he want.

Bucky hums, nods. “Alright. That makes sense.” Steve gulps his water, but he can’t stop looking at Bucky over the rim of his glass. Can’t stop looking at the plush curve of his bottom lip, the dangling ends of the dark hair he seems to be growing out. When Peggy moved, Steve was heartbroken, sure that he’d never find anyone he could ever care as much about. Sure, there were a couple people—a few dates, a few casual encounters—but not love. But he looks at Bucky now, and while he’s not creepily in love with this guy who he’s never gone out with before, but he feels stuff for him. He feels things in ways he thought he’d forgotten in a vortex of work and food. Bucky bites at his bottom lip, and gives Steve a curious little look.

Maybe it’s his warm bellyful of wine, or maybe it’s just something in him clicking, but Steve finds himself saying, “Hey Buck. Do you think you’d wanna grab a—“

“Excuse me!” one of the older women shouts from the end of the bar in a shrill voice. “Exc _use_ me,” she repeats.

Bucky glances over to the woman—now waving at him—still biting his lip. He sighs, and turns back to Steve with a little sad smile. “Hold that thought?” he asks. Steve nods, and Bucky heads over to the women.

Steve watches on, half-miserable as the women flirt with Bucky. They’re drink, and keep trying to convince him to take their numbers, or to have a drink on them. Bucky flirts back; he has to, it’s part of being a good bartender, and getting tips. Academically, Steve understands that. But what he doesn’t understand is why Bucky declines their drinks and numbers, saying he’d love to, but he just can’t.

“Well,” one of the women says. “Let me at least give you a tip.” She’s smirking, and Steve squirms.

“That,” Bucky says, “is something I can take.” The women look at one another, then fast as hell, one pops out of her seat and kisses Bucky on the cheek. “Aw,” he says. “That ain’t the tip I was thinkin’ of. You tricked me.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she says. “There’s plenty of the _other_ kind of tip for you, too.” The women giggle, and Bucky rolls hie eyes with a good-natured smile before heading back over to Steve.

“Some tip,” Steve says, forcing a smile.

“They’re a couple a goofs,” Bucky responds. He doesn’t quite meet Steve’s eyes. “So,” he prompts, drawn-out. “You were askin’ me somethin’?”

Steve’s stomach churns, and he’s suddenly without the courage he had a few minutes ago, the reckless courage that’s driven him his entire life, that made him go to culinary school rather than college, that convinced him to try out for _Top Chef_ , and eventually to strike out with Sam and make a restaurant of their own. But Bucky’s not the same. He’s not some obstacle to be conquered, and despite convincing evidence, Peggy can’t always be right. Not statically possible.

There’s no way that someone like Bucky could want someone like Steve, and being friends should be more than enough.

“Oh,” Steve says, feigning ignorance. “I was just wondering if you could grab my check.”

For a moment, and just a moment, it almost seems like Bucky’s face falls. But then he’s grinning, leaning over the bar so he’s at eye-level with Steve. “Y’know, I think just this once, I can give it to you on the house.”

“Really?” Steve asks, sweet falsity dripping from his voice. “You sure your boss won’t mind?”

“For you?” Bucky asks, cocking an eyebrow. “I don’t think he’d mind at all.

“Well then,” Steve says before sighing. “Guess I should head back to the kitchen.” He doesn’t even try to mask his disappointment.

“What?” Bucky asks. “No tip?”

Steve’s heart starts racing. “A tip?” he asks. Bucky just smirks, still leaning over, close. “A tip,” Steve repeats, near breathless before surging forward and pressing his lips to Bucky’s cheek. He means for it to be short, but he finds himself lingering a moment, relishing the feel of Bucky’s stubble against his lips. When he drags himself away a few seconds later, Steve squeaks out a goodbye and practically runs back towards the kitchen.

And what a shame he did, that didn’t even look up to see Bucky straighten up, eyes wide, and lips parted, hand reaching and gently pressing his fingertips to the stubble where Steve’s lips rested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like? Perhaps come visit me at whtaft.tumblr.com where I may blog about other things you like.


	5. Cheese Soufflé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve can't get his soufflés to rise, and it's not a euphemism.

Steve can’t make the soufflé rise. He’s been trying for hours, attempting to make the perfect cheddar soufflé   to serve with the spicy horseradish prime rib he’s making for his Sunday special. Everyone loves his Sunday specials; it’s an attraction. Good food at a decent price if you get there before 6 pm, and he’s been excited to break out the prime rib for some time. But if he can’t figure out a way to get his soufflés to rise, then he has to figure out something else to serve with the meat, but then he has to contact the printers to get the menu changed, and he’s _running out of time_ , and his heart is set on the soufflé for balance, and texture, and—

“Steve?”

Steve nearly jumps out of his skin. It’s past 2 on a Saturday night, well, Sunday now, and the kitchen has been closed for two hours. He’s been alone for a while.

“Jesus,” Steve says, turning around. Bucky is standing in the doorway; Steve had forgotten that the bar should’ve just closed. “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” Bucky responds. He runs a hand through his hair. “Didn’t mean to. You just look like one of those nighttime stories—the shoemaker and the elf, only it’s the… soufflé and the Steve.” Steve must be gaping, because Bucky shifts, looks away from him. “Sorry,” Bucky repeats. “Long shift.”

“No, you don’t need to—“

“It was dumb.” Bucky clears his throat. There’s a tension between them, a sort of static that hasn’t surfaced between them since before the night that they really spoke to each other for the first time. Steve wonders if that stupid kiss on the cheek was that bad for Bucky, if Steve really managed to ruin their friendship in just those few lingering moments. It was supposed to be cute, and sweet. People kiss each other on the cheek all the time in France. Though, Steve can’t admit to not having any kind of intention behind that kiss.

Steve picks up a metal bowl and begins beating some egg whites. Hard.

“You need anythin’?” Bucky asks. “A drink?”

Shaking his head, Steve says, “Head on home, Buck. You had a long shift.”

“So’ve you,” Bucky says. “If you want company…” He trails off and Steve looks up; Bucky is trying to stifle a yawn behind his arm. His eyes are watering just a bit, and Steve just smiles and shrugs.

“It’s my job,” Steve says. “My restaurant. My menu. My problem.”

For a moment, Bucky looks like he’s going to say something. Instead, he pauses, then adds, “Alright” with thin lips. But he hovers in the doorway.

“Really Bucky, I won’t be here for much longer,” Steve lies.

“I don’t believe you,” Bucky responds, quick.

Steve chuckles. “You’re a smart guy.”

There’s a moment, then Bucky says, “Okay, fine. I’ll go.”

“Okay,” Steve says, and Bucky moves from the doorway. “Okay,” Steve repeats, looking back down at the egg whites.

His next batch turns out fine. He doesn’t have to change the menu, and that night, three people send their compliments to the chef specifically about the cheddar cheese soufflé. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, the Tumblr is whtaft.tumblr.com.


	6. Mac and Cheese Wedges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve goes on a bad date.

Steve gets one night off during the entire week. One night off, and Steve manages to spend it on one of the worst dates he’s ever been on.

“Want another drink?” Ward yells over the thumping music of the club he decided to take his partially deaf date to. It’s loud and shiny, and he and Ward are sitting on two low-seated chairs on the edge of the room, trying to have a first date conversation over the whomping bass.

“Yeah,” Steve screams back. “Sure.” Steve’s mediocre Tom Collins is still half-full, but Ward is looking a little itchy, and frankly, Steve is hoping that a shot or two of tequila may at least turn this date into a story interesting to tell his friends about tomorrow. Ward gets up and Steve quickly loses sight of him on the way to the bar. Thinking of dashing, Steve takes another sip of his Tom Collins and grimaces.

“Tom Collins?” someone asks from above him, and startled, Steve splashes his drink and spills on his wrist as he looks up.

And there’s Bucky Barnes, sweating and smiling, and wearing tight, tight, tight black pants that make Steve want to sin almost as much as the huge, sloppy smile on Bucky’s plump lips.

“No, Steve Rogers,” Steve says in a mild attempt to be funny.

But Bucky must find it _hilarious_ , since he tips his head back and laughs and laughs, exposing his throat. His really nice throat. Ripping his eyes away from Bucky’s throat, Steve finds himself laughing, too; Bucky’s chuckle is contagious, and Steve is really smiling for the first time since Ward picked him up that evening. When Bucky control of himself, he looks down at Steve with such warm eyes that Steve’s stomach whirls.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Bucky asks.

“Date,” Steve says with a little huff.

Bucky’s smile falls. “Date?” he asks. “Who’s the lucky person?”

“His name is Ward; he’s at the bar getting drinks, and—“ Steve glances around. Grant isn’t anywhere nearby so he continues, “And God, Bucky, he’s the worst date I’ve had since high school.”

Bucky’s laughing again, plopping his ass down on the armrest of Steve’s chair. It is an excellent ass, and it takes a bit of effort for Steve to keep his eyes off of it. At least working with Bucky has given him a lot of practice at denying himself the simple pleasure of looking at his bartender’s ass because he has at least a few morals left. “Ditch him,” Bucky says. “You can hang out with me and my friend.”

It’s Steve’s turn to frown—a difficult feat with Bucky’s ass so near. “Aw Buck, if you’re on a date I don’t wanna—“

“No, no!” Bucky says, waving his hands out in front of him. “No, Steve, not a date, not at all. I’m here as Namor’s wingman, and he’s, uh, doin’ just fine without me.” Bucky points to the edge of the dance floor where a dark-haired man has a woman grinding on either side of him. “I dunno why he even brings me along when he knows I really like…” He trails off and Steve looks back up at him. Bucky bites his lip. “Sorry,” Bucky says. “But hang out with me. I’m bored.”

From the thin sheen of sweat of sweat glistening on his cheeks and collarbone, Steve’s pretty sure that Bucky’s been keeping himself occupied on the dance floor. Why he’d stop to hang out with Steve, who has two left feet—as proven by the _Top Chef_ challenge where they had to square dance for their ingredients—is kind of a mystery.  But then Bucky is straightening up, and holding a hand out to Steve. “I solemnly swear that I will do nothing untoward with my very respectable employer.” He’s smirking, and Steve is probably not drunk enough to do this, but he finds himself taking Bucky’s hand and heading to the dance floor with him.

Bucky takes both of Steve’s hands and holds them at arm’s length, like they’re middle schoolers at a chaperoned dance. Then he’s swinging Steve back and forth, almost swing dancing but lacking any sort of real grace, pausing every so often to spin Steve around or to laugh. It’s silly, dancing like this when most of the people around them are _really_ dancing, but Bucky is confident and shining, and people seem to get out of their way; a few even cheer them on while they pass by. If it were a date—which Steve has to remind himself that it is not—it’d be one of the best dates he’s ever been on.

Of course, that’s when Steve sees Ward wading through the crowd, looking over peoples’ heads, presumably for him.

“Shit,” Steve exclaims, stopping their dance abruptly.

Bucky gets the picture and straightens up, putting his hands on either one of Steve’s shoulders. “Where is he?” Bucky asks, scanning the crowd. He’s practically yelling over the noise of the crowd, but there’s something alert and strong about his deep voice. It does things to Steve that he doesn’t want to think about.

“Coming over from the direction of the bar. I don’t think he spotted me.” And almost immediately, Bucky turns the two of them around, Bucky’s broad back facing the direction Ward is coming at them from, his arms pulling Steve in close to his chest. 

Steve resists the urge to burrow in.

“Wanna ditch this place?” Bucky asks. The lights of the dance floor highlight his cheekbones, shines off of the thin layer of sweat on his skin. Steve never noticed just how broad Bucky is before, though it’s quite apparent with his pectorals up against his chin. “We could go someplace with greasy drunk food.” He smirks. “If that doesn’t offend your noble palate.”

“You know, I don’t think it would.”

**…**

It’s surprisingly easy for Bucky to drag his friend away from his dance partners, and the three of them walk a few blocks to a dive bar Bucky promises has the best french fries east of the Mississippi, which is such a dorky way to phrase it that of course Steve follows him in.

And when he does walk in, he hears the bartender cheer.

“Well I’ll be damned, Bucky Barnes came to town!” he yells. He’s a big guy with a potbelly and bushy mustache, and when Bucky sees him he lights up.

“Dum Dum, hey!” he says, hurrying to the bar and gesturing for Steve to follow him.

“If I’m needed,” Namor says, looking down at Steve with an expression somewhere between distaste and disinterest, “I will be at the pool tables.”

“Sure, okay Namor,” Steve says, following Bucky to the bar and watching Namor fracture off and head to the back of the room where, apparently, there are pool tables. By the time Steve gets over to them, Bucky and Dum Dum are exchanging hearty pleasantries. Another staff member heads over, and Bucky gives him a one-armed hug while Steve hovers a few feet back, not wanting to intrude and wondering if Namor would be interested in a companion at the pool table. Of course, that’s when Bucky turns around.

“Steve,” he says, all smiles. “Come meet my old boss.”

“Yeah,” Dum Dum says from behind the bar. “Let’s get a look at the guy who actually got Bucky to cut his hair.”

“Shaddup,” Bucky says, swatting at Dum Dum’s arm before reaching up and touching the back of his head, almost self-consciously.

“You had long hair?” Steve asks, trying to picture it.

“Yeah he did,” says the guy Bucky was hugging. “Anti-military.” He’s wearing a white shirt and an apron, with a nematic that says ‘Jim.’ Meanwhile, Bucky reaches beneath the bar and pulls out a picture, bent at the corners and worn. He hands it to Steve, who takes it as Bucky groans, mutters, “Not the damn picture.”

It’s a group photo—Bucky, Dum Dum and Jim, along with a few other guys outside the bar, arms around each other and grinning. There’s a little white banner of the door of the bar that states ‘Grand opening!’ Steve spends a long studying Bucky. His hair is long, nearly shoulder length, and while he’s smiling, it looks forced. He’s got dark circles beneath his eyes, and everything about him is a little disheveled, from his knotty hair to the duct tape holding his left sneaker together.

He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt. Everyone else in the picture wears a t-shirt.

“I’ll be taking that,” Bucky says, plucking the photo from Steve’s fingers and handing it back to Dum Dum.

“Hey—“ Steve starts, but Bucky interrupts.

“This is Dum Dum, the owner of this dump.” Dum Dum grins, and reaches his hand out for a shake. Steve reaches out, and Dum Dum pumps his hand a few times.

“Great to meet you,” Dum Dum says. He gestures to his left. “This is Jim, another one of our founding members, and our—“ he attempts a posh British accent, “executive chef.” Jim nods and smiles, and Steve waves his hello.

“Monty?” Bucky asks.

Jim shakes his head. “Got the weekend off to go on a booze cruise with his girlfriend.”

“Jealous,” Bucky says, laughing.

“Of the booze or the committed relationship?” Jim asks. “One we can fix, the other…” He trails off.

Bucky snorts. “Got enough booze to last me a lifetime.” He sways a little, his arm brushing Steve’s. “Hey Jim, wanna wrestle us up a sampler platter? Need some stuff to soak up the crap in my stomach.”

“Anything in particular?” Jim asks.

“Everything good,” Bucky responds. Then he smirks, a little conspiratorially, “And extra mac and cheese wedges, if you would.”

“You got it, Sarge.” He gives Bucky a little salute and heads back towards the kitchen.

The bar is dark with wooden floors. It’s buzzing, but not so full that it’s uncomfortable. It’s almost a textbook-looking bar, not the kind of place Steve would usually go, but he feels at home. Maybe it’s Bucky.

Bucky, who leads Steve over to a rickety high top table, far enough away from the action that they’ll be able to talk, but close enough to the bar that Dum Dum will be able to get them their drinks.

“So, you worked here?” Steve asks as he hobbles onto the tall stool. Admittedly, Steve is a little short and a little tipsy, but there’s no way he’s going to let Bucky watch him fall over while trying to get up onto a freaking chair.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, not quite meeting Steve’s eyes. “This was my first bartending gig, just after I got back. He—Dum Dum, I mean—he got a bunch of guys from our unit together to open this place up. He was the only one with any real restaurant experience, but we all made it work as best we could.” He sighs. “Sometimes I wonder how it’s still here, given that none of us knew shit.”

“Why’d you leave?” Steve asks, try to balance not wanting to pry and wanting to know _absolutely everything_ about Bucky Barnes.

Bucky shrugs his right shoulder. “Dum Dum gave me the job listing’ for your place, actually. I never expected to actually get the job.”

“But you took it,” Steve prompts.

“Better hours,” Bucky responds, and then Dum Dum is heading to the table, a beer in either hand and a grin on his face.

**…**

Hours later, Steve’s almost bloated from beer and bar food. He’s so ingrained in the culinary scene that he somehow forgot just how great it is to sit down with a plate of hot wings. And nachos. And mac and cheese wedges, oh the mac and cheese wedges. He texts Bucky a reminder for an idea he had—an anti-Super Bowl dinner with modernized bar food. Though he’s already invited Jim to come in and make the mac and cheese wedges—there’s no way to add to perfection.

But that’s all something to worry about later. Now, it’s just past 3, Steve just finished off another tequila shot, and Bucky is making talk like they should _go home_.

Everything is fuzzy as Dum Dum shoves a glass of water in front of Steve. “Last drink, buddy,” he says. Steve boos. The crowd has thinned out until it’s just Bucky, Steve, Namor, Dum Dum, Jim, and another bartender washing up.

“Las’?” Steve slurs. “Nu-uh.” He leans against Bucky’s side, looks up at him through his eyelashes. “Dun’ wan’ this night t’be over.”

“Why?” Bucky asks, sounding a lot more sober than Steve. “Need to go finish your date?”

“Mean!” Steve exclaims, half-punching Bucky on the arm, but mostly only losing his balance a little. Bucky laughs. “Mean,” Steve repeats, muttering.

“C’mon Steve, we gotta let these loons get home.” He leans in close and stage whispers, “I think it’s past Dum Dum’s bedtime” in Steve’s ear.

Dum Dum sputters as Steve shivers.

But Steve drinks his glass of water like a good boy, and when he’s done, they say their goodbyes. Bucky guides Steve out to the street, Namor trailing them. “Where do you live?” Bucky asks.

“Why d’you wanna know?” Steve asks, batting his eyes in a way that he hopes is coquettish, even if his heart is pounding. Does Bucky really want to go home with Steve? Has this actually been a date? Without Steve realizing? Will they tell their grandchildren about the night Steve was drunk off his ass and wooed Bucky with the best blowjob of his life?

Apparently not.

“So I can tell the taxi driver I’m gonna get to drive your drunk ass home.” Namor chuckles as Steve sighs and recites his address. It takes a few minutes, but Bucky flags down a taxi. He opens the door and Steve climbs inside; Steve vaguely recognizes Bucky speaking to the driver, handing him some cash before moving to talk to Steve through his open window.

“I had fun,” Steve blurts out.

“Good,” Bucky says. “That was the point.” He clears his throat, and Steve can’t stop staring at Bucky’s lips. “I paid the driver, so you just needa get yourself home.”

“You didn’t needa—“

“Don’t worry about it.” Bucky pauses, looking at Steve with an unreadable expression. “Text me when you get back, okay? Wanna make sure you don’t get kidnapped.” Steve nods, feeling a little breathless. And then Bucky is leaning closer, reaching out…

He’s looking at Steve’s lips.

“Gotta buckle up,” he says, pulling the buckle from Steve’s side and pulling it over Steve’s chest. Steve takes the buckle from Bucky’s hand when he can’t reach any farther, and their fingers brush. Steve clicks the buckle and looks up. Bucky is still leaning close, smiling. “Get home safe,” he says before straightening up and backing away.

Steve’s eyes don’t leave Bucky until they’re a block and a half away.

**…**

“He wanted you to go home with him,” Namor says as Bucky watches Steve’s taxi turn a corner like the sap he is.

Bucky sighs. “I know, but he’s drunk. First, it wouldn’t’ve been right. Second, it’s… It could’ve been anybody, y’know? I want it to be me.”

Namoi walks up to Bucky, slings an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s go.”

Bucky nods, and when Namor starts walking, he follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, sorry for the bigger gap in updating. I'm incredibly busy, and I've also just had a couple of really shitty weeks and have been in a creative slump.


	7. Hot Chocolate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A snow storm and a sleepover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And any modicum of realism this fic once had is now gone with this chapter. Oh well!

Emma Frost signs off her broadcast by saying, “Tonight’s dangerous snow fall will mean one thing, at least: next week, Santa’s reindeer will have plenty of padding to land on come Christmas.”

Bucky points the remote over at the TV and turns it over to Turner Classic Movies. Steve managed to convince Sam to step away from sports-watching in December, unless people at the bar specifically ask to change the channel over. So far, no one has.

“We should close out everyone’s tickets and head home,” Sam says. There’s a group of them standing around the bar, all watching the weather report with trepidation. “It’s already dark out, and the roads are only gonna get worse.”

Steve sighs. “I hate to close up early.”

“Steve,” Sam says, low. “The last thing we want is for someone to get drunk and have an accident with all the ice on the road.” Steve nods—it’s hard to argue with that logic. “And I know for a fact that _you_ have a long commute, and it’s only a matter of time before you end up with frostbite because you refuse to take a cab when the weather sucks.”

Steve purses his lips. His place isn’t _that_ far—only fifteen blocks—but it’s a little much when it’s this cold, given his asthma. He’s going to be moving soon, to a place two and a half blocks away, but his landlord was a real dick about it and wouldn’t let him out of his lease until the year is up.

“Worst comes to worst I can sleep over,” Steve says, feigning nonchalance. “We bought those sleeping bags in case of emergency.” It’s was Sharon’s idea, actually: they have ten cheap sleeping bags down in storage, just in case the staff ever has to spend the night. So far they haven’t broken them out, but Steve… Well, he’s stubborn.

“No,” Sam says.

“Yes,” Steve argues.

“I wouldn’t mind staying,” Bucky adds from behind the bar.

“Absolutely not,” Sam begins, ignoring Bucky and glaring at Steve. “You know how sleeping on the floor screws up your back. You’ll do nothing but complain for days, and y’know what Steve? I don’t wanna deal with it. Besides, it’s not like anyone’s coming in with this—“

As if right on cue, the door swings open. Steve, Sam and Bucky turn in tandem as a gust of cold air sweeps through the bar. A young couple walks in wearing heavy coats and red cheeks. “Are you open?” the woman asks. “We’re desperate—the subways just closed, and so is everything else on this street.”

Sam’s mouth is open, ready to say that they’re closed, too, when Steve beats him to it. “Sam, I have an idea.”

**…**

An hour later, all but a few of their customers have left. A few more have trickled in, however, after Sam posts the Snowpocalypse menu on their Facebook and Twitter:

> _Stuck in the snow? Can’t get home? You’re in luck; The Howling Commando will remain open tonight with a once in a lifetime menu! We’ll be running with limited staff, but will have a special buffet-style menu. For $35 you get unlimited white cheddar gnocchi mac and cheese (served carnivorous, vegetarian, or vegan with nut cheese), sides including green beans, cranberry sauce and harsh broons, hot chocolate (milk, dark, or spicy) and soft drinks. For $50, you get all that plus_ **_unlimited_ ** _bar service including alcohol. And feel free to spend the night if you can’t get home! We’ve got a limited number of sleeping bags, and you can also bring your own! All proceeds and tips from the night will go to the Boys and Girls Club of New York City._

Steve knows that on any other night an offer like this would pack the place, but the crowd remains maintainable because of the snow—though Sam did run out and grab a few more sleeping bags, plus blankets and pillows from his place. He and his college buddies like to go camping, and for the first time, Steve is actually thankful for Sam’s enjoyment of the outdoors.

Most of the staff opts to leave—it’s not like Steve would force them to stay. Steve, Sam and Bucky stay, of course, but one of their waitresses, Darcy, also sticks around. She doesn’t live far away, and claims to love Bucky’s spicy hot chocolate even more than she loves his dreamy eyes, “And his eyes are the color of blue Poweraid. I’ve never seen anything like them.”

Steve doesn’t pretend to know what she means by that particular metaphor, but he understands the sentiment oh so well.

Steve stays in the kitchen most of the night, cooking up pots of pasta and trays of sides to keep everyone going. They end up going through seven batches—more than Steve thought they would, but he’s happy to oblige. He loves the act of creating the gnocchi by hand, stirring them around, frying up bacon for the carnivorous spots and melting cheese. This is what he loves—cooking up food from the heart in his kitchen, making cold people satisfied with full, warm bellies. He loves his job and the silly things he can do now that he’s making the rules.

He’s about to start in on the eighth batch of gnocchi when Bucky pops in. “Thing’s slowing down out there,” he says. Steve glances at the clock—it’s nearly 1, and he’s been cooking for _hours_. “You can probably stop,” Bucky adds gently, smiling at Steve. If Steve’s being honest, Bucky looks a little tired; his hair is hanging a little lifelessly over his forehead. 

“Did you eat?” Steve asks, still holding the wooden spoon he’s been using to stir.

Bucky laughs. “‘Course I did! Hell, I think I ate a whole pot by myself.”

“So… you liked it?” Steve asks, maybe a little shy.

“Loved it,” Bucky says, and Steve feels so warm. “C’mon out. I can get you some hot chocolate. Everyone’s itchin’ to start watchin’ Charlie Brown and we don’t wanna start without you.”

And suddenly, Steve’s eyes are filling with tears, his throat closing up. He tries blinking them back, but a few traitorous tears start rolling down his cheeks. Bucky’s smile falls. “Steve?” he asks, all concern, with wide eyes.

“No, no,” Steve says. “These are, uh,” he pauses, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his chef’s coat. “They’re happy.”

“Didn’t realize you like Charlie Brown that much,” Bucky jokes, but it falls a little flat. Steve laughs anyway.

“It’s not Charlie Brown,” Steve begins. “It’s just… It’s just that I’m realizing that this is it. I’m really living my dream.” He swallows, and Bucky’s smile is beginning to spread again. “And I’m happy, Buck. I’m so, so happy.”

“Can I…” Bucky starts, then stops. He bites his bottom lip.

“What is it, Buck?” Steve asks, wiping at his cheeks again. He’s sure he looks like a mess, but he can’t bring himself to care about it.

“Could I give you a hug, or somethin’?” Bucky’s got his hands shoved in the pockets of his slacks, and he’s looking down, not at Steve.

“Of course,” Steve says, grinning and choking back a laugh. “That’d be great.”

Bucky crosses the kitchen in a few short strides; he hesitates a moment when he reaches Steve, but then he’s reaching around Steve and pulling him close. Bucky’s embrace is soft and warm, and he smells like hot chocolate and spice. And Steve doesn’t ever want to let go.

**…**

But he has to, of course. It’d be weird if he didn’t. Thankfully, the hug lasts a good minute and a half, long enough hat Steve has a brief moment of panic where he thinks a few inappropriate things that may’ve caused a… stiff problem. But Bucky pulls away before Steve managed to embarrass himself for life, and maybe open himself up to a lawsuit of some kind.

“C’mon,” Bucky says, slinging an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “The dishes can wait.”

**…**

“Steve,” Sam says. “We’ve got a small problem.”

“What’s that?” Steve asks. He’s just handed out the last of the pillows to Darcy, who flounces away as he and Sam talk.

“You know how Mrs. Finnigan came in late?” Steve nods. She came after the kitchen was closed, but she didn’t have anywhere else to go, so of course they made her up a plate and let her sleep over. “Well, since she decided to spend the night, we’re short a sleeping bag.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “She can take mine.”

“No,” Sam responds. “We’ll figure something—“

“We can share.” Steve and Sam both turn around. Bucky is standing behind them—he’s changed into sweat pants, a baggy t-shirt and a zip-up hoodie hanging open. He’s carrying a sleeping bag under his arm. “I mean, we can just unzip the bag, spread it out and use a couple of blankets.” He shrugs. “If you wanna. No pressure.”

“Steve?” Sam asks, and Steve knows what those raised eyebrows mean Sam. Unnecessary.

Feeling halfway to an asthma attack, Steve shrugs, hoping he looks cool, casual, and collected. “Yeah,”” he says. “Sounds fine to me.”

“Well, well,” Sam says, and Steve resists the urge to elbow him in the kidney, but only just barely. “Guess that settles that.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “C’mon Bucky, let’s claim a space.” Bucky smiles, and they head across the room. Most of the restaurant has already filled up with people in their sleeping bags, whispering to each other and stretching out, but Bucky eventually finds a space big enough for the two of them in a quiet corner. “I’ll grab some blankets,” Steve says as Bucky spreads the sleeping bag out for the two of them. Bucky nods, and Steve grabs blankets from a pile in the center of the room. It’s almost lights out, and the room grows quiet.

When Steve gets back Bucky is still standing, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he fiddles with the zipper of his hoodie. “Hey Steve,” he says.

“Hey,” Steve responds. “I’ve got the blankets.” He gestures to them with his free hand a little lamely.

Bucky gives Steve a little tight-lipped smile. “Thanks.” He pauses. “Would you, uh, mind sleeping on my right side?”

“Sure,” Steve says, trying not to care or be confused. He sits down on the right side of the sleeping bag. “Any reason why?”

Bucky shrugs. “Is it lights out time?” Steve pulls his phone form his pocket—he doesn’t have a change of clothes, but has ditched the chef’s coat—and checks the time. “Just about,” he responds.

“Cool,” Bucky says, and Steve’s pretty sure that he’s not imagining Bucky’s nervousness. “I’ll, um, get ‘em.”

“I think Sam’s in charge of that,” Steve says. He looks up at Bucky. “Wanna sit?” he asks.

Bucky swallows, crosses his arms over his chest; he stands, staring at Steve, mouth a little agape. Then he shuts his mouth, and in a second he plops down next to Steve. “You tired?” Steve nods. “Me too,” Bucky says.

“Here,” Steve says, handing Bucky a blanket. It’s white knight and nondescript. Bucky spreads it over his legs, then lays down, pulling it over his torso and chest with his right hand. A few moments of wiggling later, Bucky pulls his hoodie off and drops it onto the floor next to him. He takes a deep breath and seems to relax a bit. Steve’s not sure what’s going on, but he just hopes that Bucky isn’t having second thoughts about sleeping with… well, next to Steve. First, Steve’s heart would break a little bit. Second, well, Sam wasn’t lying about the floor being really bad for Steve’s back. 

Heaving a sigh, Steve lays down and looks up at the ceiling. He’d like to look at Bucky, but he’s almost entirely sure that staring at your employee as you platonically share a sleeping bag makes you a huge asshole. So he looks at the ceiling and a few moments later Sam shuts off the lights. Steve shuts his eyes, but it’s chilly down on the floor—even with his blanket—and Steve can’t help but shiver a little.

“Steve?” Bucky asks, sounding worried.

“I have bad circulation, is all,” Steve mutters, embarrassed that he can’t keep his cool—or in this instance, warm—in front of Bucky during this strange and probably never-to-be-repeated scenario.

“Want my hoodie?” Before Steve can answer, Bucky is rooting around next to him, and a moment later he’s dropping his hoodie on Steve’s chest.

“Thanks,” Steve says, sitting up to pull it on. It’s swimming on Steve, and as he zips it up he notices that it smells like the bar and cologne and, well, it smells like Bucky. He lays back down and thanks Bucky again.

“No problem.” Steve looks over to see Bucky smiling at him, eyes bright even in the darkness. “Night Steve.”

“Night.”

Steve gets a great night of sleep.

**…**

“We got write-ups in, like, six major publications,” Sam says over the phone the next day. They shut down the restaurant after everyone left in the morning—Steve and Sam were tired, and since they’re scheduled to get another few feet of snow, it’s not like business would be hopping. They can afford a day off.

“Send me the links?” Steve asks. He’s wrapped up in a few blankets on his couch, TV mutely playing _The Food Network_ in front of him.

“Sure thing.” Sam pauses. “That was a great night,” he says, and Steve can hear the smile in his voice.

“Yeah,” Steve responds, pulling on the sleeve of Bucky’s hoodie. “It was pretty great.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating. Work on my honors thesis is getting intense. As always, you can find me at whtaft.tumblr.com!


	8. Fruit Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has no plans for Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a gal who was raised Jewish, I sure do write a lot about Christmas.

Steve walks over to the bar for his break when he sees one of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen sitting there. She’s like someone straight off the pages of _Vogue_ ; straight red hair, fitted leather jacket, and designer sunglasses pushed up to the top of her head. She’s gorgeous, and she’s talking to Bucky, and Steve should be excited that she’s at his restaurant—because she looks like a celebrity; is she a celebrity?—but she’s talking to Bucky.

It’s possible that Steve can occasionally be a jealous little shit sometimes.

Now, Steve recognizes that part of Bucky’s job is to beautiful women, and to make them happy with his elaborate cocktails. That’s how he gets his tips, and keeps Steve’s restaurant going. But this particular woman is leaning forward, speaking to Bucky with a straight face, a surprising intensity and intimacy that doesn’t so much show flirting as it does _relationship_. It’s not typical bartender talk.

Steve tries to turn around, but at the unfortunate moment of turning around where he faces the bar, Bucky catches his eye. “Steve!” he calls, waving his arm. “Hey Steve!”

“Hey Bucky,” Steve says, a little drawn-out and awkward. He doesn’t want to get involved in whatever is going on over there; Bucky’s relationship troubles don’t need to involve him.

“C’mon over,” Bucky responds with a fake smile, and, well, shit.

The escape plan seems to be a complete bust. So Steve walks over, feeling both Bucky’s and the woman’s eyes on him. Hers are a little narrowed. He swallows hard.

“Natasha, this is Steve.” Is Steve imaging the slight panic in Bucky’s voice? The little bead of sweat on his forehead? 

“Hi Steve,” Natasha says, then quickly adds, “Are you really keeping the restaurant open tomorrow?”

“What?” Steve asks, surprised. “No, of course not.”

“So there’s no special brunch that starts at ten AM?” Steve shakes his head.

“Nat—“ Bucky tries interjecting.

“So no all-you-can drink spiked hot chocolate or peppermint cosmos?”

“… No?” Steve says, confused as Bucky says, harsh, “Natasha, that’s enough.” He sounds exasperated, and Steve gets the feeling that he’s fucked up somehow.

“Is it?” Natasha asks, just as sharp. “James, you have lied to me before, and I cannot believe you would—“

“I’m gonna—“ Steve begins, but is cut off by the sharp turn of Natasha’s head.

“No,” she says. “I have a few more—“

“Natasha,” Bucky snaps. Then all at once his body loses its tenseness, his voice its acidity as he adds, “Please,” plaintive and almost broken.

Natasha’s features soften. She reaches across the bar, takes Bucky’s hand and gives it a little squeeze. And then she smiles; for real, nothing fake or sour about it. It’s beautiful. “Steve,” she says, though she’s still looking at Bucky. “Can you help me convince Bucky to come to my place for Christmas? We can’t stand the thought of him spending it alone.”

“Um,” Steve says brilliantly. “Maybe I should—“

“Natasha,” Bucky interrupts, shutting his eyes and tensing up again. “Do you not realize that Steve is my boss? That this restaurant is my place of work? That I could get fired for—“

“I wouldn’t fire—“

“Please Steve,” Bucky says, sarcastic, which okay, that’s rude. Then he sighs a little. “Sorry Steve, sorry.” He pauses. “This is _so_ unprofessional.”

“All of this could be solved if you’d just agree to—“ Natasha begins, but pauses when Bucky huffs. She raises a perfect eyebrow and Bucky puts his hands on his hips. “Well,” she begins, turning to Steve. Her smile shifts, one corner of her lips quirking up. Steve feels like he maybe should’ve never left the kitchen. “Steve?” What’re your big plans for the holiday?”

“I’m, um, I don’t have, um,” Steve stutters.

“Have plans?” Natasha finishes for him. Steve shakes his head, feeling a little helpless. “So, you were probably planning a quiet day, to sit on the couch wrapped in a blanket, maybe catch up on a few TV shows?” Steve nods. “So, just a low-key day?”

“I was planning on doing some laundry,” Steve admits.

“So, even _with_ laundry on agenda, the addition of another person wouldn’t wreck your low-key plans?”

Steve glances over at Bucky, who is looking down at his feet. “I mean,” Steve starts. “If Bucky wants to he’s more than welcome to-“

“Bucky?” Natasha asks, all feigned innocence. “Who said anything about Bucky?”

“Natasha, you’re bein’ annoyin’.”

Natasha sighs, though her annoyance seems false. “Right,” she says. “Okay. Well, then, Bucky will be at Steve’s place at eleven tomorrow and here—“ She reaches into the pocket of her jacket and pulls out two tickets. “There’re for the movie theater two blocks from your place,” she explains as she hands them over to Bucky. “They’re vouchers for free tickets, though I think you’ll have to pay a few extra bucks if you two’re gonna see a new release.” She pops off her still and pulls her sunglasses down over her eyes. “Merry Christmas boys,” she says, and in a flash, she’s out of there.

“Sorry,” Bucky says as soon as she’s out the door. “She’s… A lot.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Bucky stares at the tickets and Steve adds. “If you wanna be alone tomorrow that’s fine, but—“ Bucky glances up, and Steve shrugs. “If you wanted to come over, that’d be fine, too.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah,” Steve responds, firm.

**…**

When they get back to Steve’s place after the movie Bucky hands him a bag. “It’s stupid,” he says. “But I saw it, and…”

“Can I?” Steve asks. Bucky nods.

The bag is striped red and white, and there’s some green tissue paper that Steve removes. He digs inside and pulls out a black apron. “Unfold it,” Bucky instructs, and Steve does; embroidered on the front in white is the phrase, “Kiss the cook” along with a pair of cartoonish pink lips.

Steve looks up at a smiling, blushing Bucky, and wishes that he just would.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to biblionerd07, whose fic is amazing and Tumblr is great and you should check out both!


	9. Kugel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve gets a cold and is not pleased about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking forever to update! I had finals and then a Secret Santa gift to write. I'm hoping to get a lot of writing done during the rest of my winter break, so be prepared!

The problem with being a chef is that as soon as you have a little cough or sneeze once or twice, everyone is all, “Steve, step away from that turkey chili” and “Steve, if you touch that pan of cornbread you’re going to put this restaurant out of business.”

Which, okay, is reasonable. Steve probably caught the cold when he moved in to his new apartment. He (and Sam and a few of their other friends) spent a heck of a lot of time carrying furniture through the snow and cold on New Year’s Day, which wasn’t so good for Steve’s already weak lungs. Still, Steve can’t help but roll his eyes when his employees give him hell.

The worst insult with Sam—Sam, Steve’s best friend, business partner, and overall good dude—grabs him under the armpits, picks Steve up and carries him out of the kitchen, ignoring Steve’s kicking legs as he mutters, “Rogers, this restaurant is my livelihood. There’s no way I’m letting your stubborn sick ass get the health inspector on our case.”

And that’s how Steve ends up in his (new, and actually very lovely) apartment, cocooned in a warm blanket with a tissue box on one side and his annotated copy of _Modernist Cuisine_ on the other as he settles in for a day (or three) of sickness and boredom.

**…**

It’s day two, and Steve is dozing. He has _Modernist Cuisine_ draped over him like a second blanket, and his speakers are playing soft jazz music. There’s a sea of tissues surrounding him, and his humidifier is blowing gentle mist into the air. That’s why Steve is so surprised when there’s a sharp knock on the door. He wakes with a start, scrambling up and letting the book and a waterfall of tissues fall onto the floor with a thud. Steve winces, swears quietly, and heads to the door as he wipes his nose with his bare arm. He’s sick, he’s feeling pissy, and is definitely not in the mood to give a neighbor a cup of sugar (though he will). But it’s not his neighbor behind the other side of the door.

“Bucky?” Steve asks, wincing at the sound of his scratchy voice.

“I hope this is okay,” Buck starts. He’s got a couple reusable grocery bags in his hands, and he’s wearing jeans beneath his black coat—his civilian clothes.

“Um,” Steve says because he’s surprised and sick and not thinking too well on his feet.

“I tried texting you, but you didn’t respond,” Bucky says, and his eyes get a little steely, maybe a bit nervous.

“Turned off my phone,” Steve mumbles.

Bucky shifts, readjusting his grip on the bags. “I brought you some provisions,” Bucky says, holding them out. “Can I come in?”

Steve waffles for a moment, suddenly very aware of his oversize Howling Commando t-shirt, snotty and dripping down to expose part of his pale collarbone. He’s wearing a pair of soft, comfortable sweatpants (which, honestly, he stole from an old hook-up a few days before Steve broke it off) that are too long, and pool around his feet, probably making Steve look tinier than he usually seems. It’s embarrassing, and Steve doesn’t want Bucky to see him with a red runny nose and bedhead. He thinks that Bucky is already judging him, looking at his collarbone and glancing at his chapped lips. But Bucky came all this way, and Steve does like getting presents, so he nods and steps to the side. “Mi casa es su casa,” he says, then feels kind of stupid about it.

But Bucky smiles and enters. “Gotta place I can set these down?” Bucky asks.

“The kitchen,” Steve says, and leads him over to that part of the apartment. Honestly, the kitchen is a little smaller than he would’ve liked it, but Steve knows that all he really makes when he’s home is grilled cheese, since he’s way too cooked out from work.

“Great,” Bucky responds, setting the bags down on the kitchen counter. “This is great.” He pauses, then adds, “So how’re you feelin’?”

Steve shrugs and internally panics as the movement causes the collar of his shirt to slip further, exposing his shoulder. He glances up to see Bucky looking again, so Steve starts talking just to distract Bucky from his bony, unappealing body. “It’s a cold. I think being sick and missing work is more frustrating than the cold itself.” He pulls his shirt back up in a way he hopes Bucky doesn’t notice.

Bucky frowns. “Being’ stubborn won’t help you get better.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You sound like Sam.”

“Sam’s one of the smartest people I know. I’m takin’ that as a compliment. Thanks Steve!” His voice is a little sarcastic, and he’s smiling, and he’s just about the best thing Steve’s seen all day.

“Take it whatever way you want it,” Steve retorts and gee, he hopes Bucky will think his sudden blush is part of his fever. He fakes a cough so he has an excuse to cover his face. Doesn’t matter either way, because when he drops his arm, Bucky is facing the wall, fiddling with whatever he has in those bags.

“You alright?” Bucky asks. “That sounded nasty.”

“I’m fine,” Steve says.

“That’s good.” Bucky turns back to Steve and gives him a close-mouthed smile. “And if you’re lyin’ just to save face, I’ve got these—“ He holds up an unopened bag of Ricola cough drops “—to ease the pain.” Steve can’t help the dopey smile that spreads across his face.

“My hero,” Steve responds, and Bucky barks out a laugh.

“This is just a little care package for you,” Bucky explains, unearthing the various things from his bags and setting them out on Steve’s kitchen counter. “Got a card that most of the staff signed. We couldn’t find Loki, but honestly we didn’t try too hard to find ‘im. Bit of a creep and I didn’t think you’d lose any sleep over that.”

“How dare you,” Steve says in mock admonishment. “Loki is the father of my children.”

“Given what he decorates his locker with, I wouldn’t be surprised if the only thing he wanted to have his children was a My Little Pony.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Really?” he asks.

Bucky shudders a little for dramatic effect. “Moving on,” he says. “A pile of trashy magazines.” He gestures to a little stack, which has a copy of _Food & Wine _on top.

“You think _Food & Wine_ is trash?” Steve asks, confused.

“Have they done a profile on you yet?” Steve shakes is head. “Trashy,” Bucky states, solemn. Steve laughs. “Okay, so what else…” Bucky starts and prattles on in a way that Steve can’t help but find endearing. “Hope made you a vat of chicken noodle soup, which should last a day or two. You’ll have to warm it up, but she promised that it’s delicious—though she wouldn’t let me try it. She says it’s spicy? I’m not sure how you make chicken noodle soup spicy but she, uh, seems to have accomplished it.” He pauses, and looks down sheepishly, as if he just now realized that he went on a little bit too long about soup. But God, is Steve could hear him talk about soup all day; everything he says is just kind of great. “So, uh, last there’s this pan of noodle kugel.” He gestures to it and bites down on his lower lip for a second. “I mean, I made it so I dunno if it’s any good, but it’s my bubbe’s recipe, so.” He shrugs, and looks down. “I used to like it when I was sick, so my ma sent me the recipe.”

“You made it?” Steve confirms. He’s had kugel once or twice at the deli, but never homemade.

Bucky nods, looking almost shy.

Something warm fills Steve’s chest (and it’s not mucus). “Thanks,” he says. “For all of this, and the kugel especially. It’s…” Steve has to pause and swallow, throat threatening to close up. “Just thanks.”

“It’s no problem. It was nice cookin’ for a change.”

Bucky smiles at Steve, and Steve smiles back, and being sick is terrible, but not so terrible when he gets to see Bucky.

**…**

Bucky sticks around for a little bit, warming up some soup for Steve and fussing in a way that makes all of Steve’s tired, stubborn bones want to rebel. But Bucky ignores Steve’s glares and chitchats about work as he neatens Steve’s apartment and takes out his trash.

“I like your new place,” Bucky says as he ladles soup into a bowl. “Must be nice bein’ so close to work now. Commutin’ sucks.”

“Sorry you have to see the place all snotty,” Steve says from where Bucky has him all bundled up on the couch. He’s got Bucky’s stack of magazines next to him, sitting atop his copy of _Modernist Cuisine_.

“I’m just glad you’re doin’ okay,” Bucky responds as he brings Steve his bowl. “I’m just sorry I gotta get goin’.” He carefully hands Steve his bowl and spoon, then gently places a few napkins on the magazines. “Call me if you need anythin’ okay?”

Steve nods, knowing that there’s no way his stubborn ass would call anyone, let alone Bucky.

“And hang in there,” Bucky adds. “We… I miss havin’ you at work.”

It’s probably just the cold medicine making Steve feel loopy, but he thinks he sees Bucky’s ears turning a little pink. “I miss being there,” Steve admits, then adds, “Thanks for everything, Buck.”

“It was no problem, not at all.”

Bucky takes a breath, looking at Steve on the couch with fond eyes. He reaches out and smooths Steve’s bedhead down, touch lingering for a moment. Then he leaves, too quickly, and the room feels cold again.

**…**

Of course, the soup is delicious. Spicy with what Steve thinks is nam prik pao, with sweet white onions and carrots. But Steve likes the kugel more. It’s sweet and filling and somehow tastes like home.

Steve wouldn’t have expected it to be anything less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Modernist Cuisine is a very expensive, very important book about molecular gastronomy. I like to think that Steve won his copy when he was on Top Chef.
> 
> 2\. Bubbe is Yiddish for grandma (or is at least a derivative). Bucky is half-Jewish on his mother's side.
> 
> 3\. Kugel is a noodle casserole that's affiliated with Judaism. It sounds weird but it's honestly so delicious and super easy to make, and if you want I can give you my mom's recipe!
> 
> 4\. Many thanks to SargeandStarlight for pointing out that the menthol VapoRub is bad for asthmatics, and therefore not something Steve would use!
> 
> As always, you can find me at whtaft.tumblr.com!


	10. White Truffle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Valentine's Day and Sam has a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the most... Emotional of any chapter in this fic, or any coming chapter. A lot of the focus is on Sam and Steve's relationship, and gets a little into Sam's backstory, and why he ended up becoming Steve's partner.

“So,” Sharon begins. “What’s the menu for this year?”

It’s January 31st, and the menu for the day has already been finalized, so Bucky can’t help but ask, “What menu?” as he polishes some barware. Steve is sitting at the bar, filling out some paperwork and Sharon is next to him, drinking one of Bucky’s non-alcoholic mixed drinks while she takes a break.

“Valentine’s Day,” Sharon responds. Steve sets down his pencil. “Steve does this ridiculous Valentine’s Day dinner every year and it’s _amazing_. Splits the restaurant in half for couples and not-couples and gives these dueling prix fixe menus for each side. Each course uses one ingredient, but differently for either side.” She leans in a little closer and says, “Reservations have been booked full since October.”

“Except,” Steve adds, “That one single guy who tried to switch his reservation from the non-couples area to the couples.”

“Was he successful?” Bucky asks. Steve shakes his head. “So did he ditch the reservation?”

Sharon laughs. “Of course he didn’t.”

“He kept his reservation on the no couples side,” Steve adds.

“Sounds like a bad plan for a date,” Bucky says.

Sharon shrugs. “A reservation at the Howling Commando on Valentine’s Day is still a reservation,” Sharon says. “They’ll still be able to Instagram their dinner, which is what is truly important.” Steve rolls his eyes.

“So what’s on the menu?” Bucky asks.

“I’ve got the ingredient for each course, but not the dish itself,” Steve starts. “Appetizer is white truffle. I think that the second corse will be beets, but I’m still not entirely sure about that. Then the entree will be venison, or a squash blossom vegetarian substitute, but they’d have to order that ahead of time. And desert, well, I’m not sure yet.” Steve shrugs, then looks up at Bucky. “We should try to do some pairings for desert, wine or cocktails. Frankly, we should pair all the dishes with wine, but I’m not at that point yet.”

“We can figure out somethin’ good,” Bucky says. “Wanna figure something out tonight?”

Steve can’t help it; he lights up a little. “Yeah, that’d be great.” He pauses, and looks at the rows of bottles behind Bucky. “Will you need that day off? Valentine’s?”

“No,” Bucky says. “I don’t think I will.”

Steve lets himself smile a little.

**…**

“Steve?”

“Sam?”

It’s February 13th, and the two of them are standing in their office.

“Steve, you’re my business partner, my best friend, my brother, my—“

“What do you need, Sam?” Steve interrupts, sparing Sam any sort of embarrassment. Steve’ll find a way to do whatever it is Sam wants, no matter what it is.

“A table tomorrow.”

“Which side?” Steve asks.

Sam pauses, then sighs. “Romantic.”

Steve stares. “Romantic?” Steve confirms. Sam nods. “You have a date?”

“I have a girlfriend,” Sam says, and Steve’s brow furrows. “I thought I snuck myself in a few weeks ago, but I messed up and deleted the reservation, or someone thought it was a mistake.” Sam sighs. “I know you’ve already got supplies ordered, so I understand if—“

Steve waves him off. “What time?” he asks.

“She doesn’t get off from work until 7. Would 8:30 work?” It’s the last seating of the night, and their least full.

“Sure, that’d be great.”

There’s a moment of silence between them. Steve doesn’t want to say it, but it just comes out, “I didn’t know you were seeing someone,” he blurts out, quiet and strained.

“Yeah it’s pretty new.” Sam scratches the back of his neck, looking down. “We’ve been exclusive since December.”

Steve wants to say, “Two and a half months is a long time to keep a serious relationship a secret from your best friend.”

Steve wants to say, “I can’t believe that after everything that happened, you didn’t tell me.”

But Steve doesn’t say either of those things. Instead he says, “I’m excited to meet her,” a little stiffly before leaving the office.

**…**

**VALENTINE’S DAY MENU AT THE HOWLING COMMANDO**

_Tonight’s dinner consists of four courses in two menus according to seating in the dining room. Each course showcases a single ingredient but in different ways. Dishes that appear first will be served to the “couples” side of the dining room._

**First Course: White Truffle**

“Eggs Benedict” with poached quail egg and white truffle hollandaise served with a microgreen salad with white truffle vinaigrette

“Chips & Dip” with duck liver pate and white truffle chip served with a micogreen salad with white truffle vinaigrette

**Second Course: Beet**

Beet-glazed salmon served with a carrot-pecan salad, roasted in beet juice and salt

Mascarpone ravioli with chives served in a beet and cream sauce

**Third Course: Venison**

Slow-cooked venison and apple served atop cinnamon roasted brussels sprouts

Venison tenderloin with a blackberry cabernet sauce served with salt and pepper roasted potatoes

**Fourth Course: Champagne**

Champagne-poached peaches served atop a white chocolate custard with mint snow

A light lemon sorbet with raspberry coulis served with a champagne jello shot

**…**

Steve has a bad track record with Valentine’s Day. He thinks that there’s some lingering curse, starting with his grade school embarrassment at being the kid in class with no Valentine’s to last year’s dinner, where they were without a bartender because Rumlow was nowhere to be found. His disdain for Valentine’s Day is part of why he splits the restaurant for the holiday — he wants to try to make sure that everyone, regardless of relationship status, can have a good time on the stupid, fake holiday. But years of terrible Valentine’s Days gives him a poisonous attitude from the moment Steve wakes up that morning.

They don’t have lunch that day in order to prep for their — frankly, overbooked — dinner service. Steve is snappish in the kitchen and declines going out to schmooze with the guests. Instead, he works on making sure every dish that comes out of the kitchen is perfect. Mood aside, he’s proud of the dueling menus he created, and does hope that people enjoy them. The waitstaff keep coming back and telling the kitchen staff that people are happy, so Steve tries to be happy about that, despite his pissy mood.

He works without taking a break all evening. Then, at about 8:15, Sam comes in. Steve is in the middle of plating one of his quail eggs and doesn’t have the time to pay attention. It’s hard not to break the yolk, and they’ve already lost several plates thanks to shaky fingers or a misplaced sauce spoon. Sam should know better than to interrupt him while he’s working, yet he walks over to Steve and stands in front of him. “How do I look?” he asks, gesturing wide to show off his suit.

“Lovely,” Steve responds without looking up.

Sam doesn’t let Steve’s attitude get to him, apparently, though he loses his goofy grin. “Got a minute? Maria’ll be here soon and I’d like for the two of you to meet.”

“Can’t,” Steve says, curt. “It’s too busy back here.” He knows he’s being petulant and he’s trying to convince himself to care about that, but there are a lot of quail eggs to deal with and not enough time.

Steve looks up just in time to see Sam’s face fall. “Don’t be like that Steve,” he says, quietly enough that the other people in the kitchen won’t hear.

“Be like what?” Steve asks, understanding wholeheartedly that he’s being an unreasonable ass, but not being able to stop himself.

Sam just sighs. He knows Steve’s bullshit far too well, and knowing that it’d probably be better for him to just step away. “If you’ve got a minute, come out and meet her. Alright?”

“Sure” Steve responds. “Definitely.”

Steve watches Sam walk away before her looks back to his plate.

The yolk broke.

**…**

A half hour passes before Steve has another unwelcome visitor in his kitchen.

“Steve?” Bucky asks, pushing his way past one of Steve’s runners. He seems all in a rush to get over to Steve, but once he’s in front of him, Bucky hesitates.

“Yeah?” Steve prompts, eyebrows raised.

“You, uh, haven’t taken a break, have ya?” Steve shakes his head, not going to waste breath on stating the obvious. “Okay,” he says, then repeats, “okay,” quieter, more to himself. “I was wonderin’ if you’d wanna take your break and grab—“

“Can’t,” Steve interrupts. While he’d typically jump on the chance to take his break with Bucky, he selfishly doesn’t want Bucky to see him in such a foul mood, to ruin whatever good opinion of Steve Bucky has. Steve spares a glance upwards and adds softly, “Sorry.”

Bucky smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Alright,” he responds. “I’ll try to catch you before you leave.”

And if Steve felt like shit when Sam walked away, he feels like he could fill an entire sewer when Bucky does.

**…**

Service goes well and some foodie blogger writes up a piece on the dueling menu that causes people to phone in asking for reservations for next year, which bodes well for the restaurant’s future.

After the last dishes go out, Steve grabs a towel, wipes the sweat from his forehead and heads to the office. He’s tired but riled up, so he thinks he can probably channel his bad mood into working on some budget stuff that he wouldn’t normally want to do. It surely couldn’t make his day any worse.

But of course, he’s wrong.

He walks into his office and the office chair swivels around, revealing a tall brunette woman with severe cheekbones. She’s wearing a beautiful black dress with an asymmetrical collar, and her hair is pulled back into an elegant chignon. “Steve?” she asks in a silky voice as she looks him up and down. Steve swallows, resisting the urge to cringe, and nods. She nods back and gives him a tight smile. “Maria,” she says, by way of introduction.

“Sam’s date?” Steve confirms.

She nods once, slowly. “Sam’s date,” she repeats. “The one you refused to meet?” There’s something almost amused in her voice and Steve looks at his feet. “You know, when I get asked out for Valentine’s Day, I don’t usually expect to spend the whole evening consoling my boyfriend because his best friend treated him like crap.” Steve flinches. There’s something sharp about her language, and Steve can’t help but feel like he’s back in middle school being told-off by a teacher. But it’s a fair shot. Fair, but brutal. Before Steve can squeak out an apology, she continues. “Now, I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, since Sam usually has nothing but effusive — though occasionally exasperated — praise. _But_ — “ She emphasizes the word in a way that makes Steve feel very, very small. “I didn’t get Sam anything for the holiday, as ridiculous as it is, so this is for him.”

Before Steve can ask what the hell, Sam bursts in the room, out of breath and a little freaked out. “Maria?” he asks, confused. He then turns and sees Steve and adds, “ _Steve_?” even more incredulously.

“Steve was just telling me how sorry he is,” Maria lies, smooth as silk. “And we decided to all get drinks together after the two of you hash this out.” She stands up and smooths down the bottom of her dress. “I’ll be waiting outside,” she says as she leaves the room, shutting the door behind her.

There’s a beat, then Steve turns to Sam and says, “I like her.”

Sam snorts. “I knew you would.” He smiles, but it’s sad. Steve has never liked it when Sam is sad, and realizes, with a shock, that it’s his fault. He’s the shitty one here. He made Sam Wilson sad.

Steve sighs, then takes a few steps over to the side of the room. He slides down the wall, sitting with his knees to his chest. Sam follows his lead and sits down next to Steve, just far enough apart that no part of them is touching. “I don’t know why you didn’t tell me,” Steve begins, voice quiet and steady. “We’ve always told each other things.”

Sam tips his head back against the wall and looks up at the ceiling. “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t wanna jinx it?”

“Probably,” Steve mutters.

“I didn’t really know what I was doing,” Sam admits. “If I liked her or if I was even ready to be in another relationship.” Sam pauses to exhale. “It doesn’t mean that I don’t still think about Riley, because I do.” Steve winces; he hates to be found out like this. “I’m sitting in that desk—“ he points to their desk across the room “and look at the phone and remember the day they called me at my temp job. I almost didn’t pick up. Remember that?” Steve nods, but Sam doesn’t even pretend to look at him. “Almost thought selling a box of pens was more important than picking up the phone.”

Sam shuts his eyes and a few tears trickle down his cheeks. Steve tries to ignore the tears welling in his own. “I almost joined up when he did but let my mama talk me out of it. But I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d been there? What if I could’ve grabbed him? Kept him from falling?” He opens his eyes again. “I would’ve. If I could back, I would’ve.” Steve reaches out and takes Sam’s hand, squeezes it tight.

“But I gotta live my life, Steve. I was grieving, and that gave me the strength to pack up, leave town, and start this place with you. And you better believe that I haven’t regretted that for a goddamn minute. You grabbed me and dragged me outta hell and into New York and I love you for that, Steve. But Maria…” He pauses, swallows hard. “She helps me look at the phone. Sometimes I’m almost excited when it rings.”

Steve won’t deny how he’s now crying, and Sam drops Steve’s hand. Sam pulls an arm around Steve’s shoulders and pulls him in tight, Steve’s forehead against Sam’s chest. “I miss him,” Steve says. “And I don’t wanna lose you.”

“I miss him, too,” Sam says, voice quiet. “But we’re always gonna stick together. Either of us being with someone isn’t going to change that.”

“Cheesy,” Steve says.

Sam snorts. “Shut up Steve,” he says, without heat. “This is all your fault.”

And for once, Steve doesn’t argue.

**…**

“Kissed and made up?” Maria asks when they’ve cleaned themselves up enough to leave the room. Enough time has passed that it _almost_ looks like they weren’t crying on each other for a good ten minutes.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Wouldn’t kiss this guy even if you paid me.” Maria raises an eyebrow. “Alright,” Sam amends. “If someone named the right price. But it’d have to pay my rent for a few months.”

They laugh, and Steve watches the way Sam watches Maria laugh, and something in his chest relaxes. “First round is on me,” Steve announces, and finds that he’s smiling, really smiling for the first time that day before they head out.

And somewhere, a few blocks away, Bucky Barnes drops an unopened Valentine’s Day card addressed to Steve Rogers in an anonymous trash can before shoving his hands in his pockets and heading home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey today is my birthday? You know what I want?? COMMENTS. Or Tumblr follows at whtaft.tumblr.com. (I'm kidding. Sort of. Not really. Maybe.)


	11. Devil's Food Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve bakes a cake for Bucky's birthday.

Steve is _baking_.

Now, that’s not wholly unusual. He’s got a calendar tacked up on the oven in his apartment, certain dates circled in red, with little names written beneath. Today is March 9th. In a matter of hours, it will be March 10th, which on the calendar is circled in red, with “BUCKY BARNES” written in blocky handwriting beneath.

So he’s baking.

He bakes for everyone, tries to do whatever they like. He made blondies for Sharon — ironic, given her hair color — and chocolate chip cookies for Hope. Steve doesn’t pretend to be the greatest baker in the world, because that’s Peggy, but he does his best for his staff. And that’s why — and for no ulterior motive — Steve is standing in his kitchen, covered in flour, and trying his damnedest to make the most beautiful devil’s food cake anyone has ever seen in their entire life.

**…**

At four am, Steve pulls the strawberry mint jam out of the fridge. He’s spent the last week experimenting with the recipe, and he likes the balance of mint to strawberry, with a little kick from some black pepper. The four layers of the cake are out of their pans, having cooled, and the whipped cream frosting is tasting delicious. Despite the hour, he takes his time, making sure to spread the jam and frosting evenly between each layer, stacking the cakes atop each other, then applying the crumb coat. After thirty minutes in the fridge — and a thirty minute cat nap — Steve takes it out and adds the final layer of whipped cream frosting. He adds a layer of strawberries sliced thin around the top, and sprinkles a mix of milk and dark chocolate shavings around the middle and sides.

It’s gorgeous. It’s the most beautiful cake he’s ever made.

He falls asleep on the couch still covered in flour.

**…**

“Cut me off a piece of _that_ ,” Darcy says, ignoring the silverware she should be rolling to hover over the cake. Steve is at the bar, pretending to do some paperwork, but really just guarding the cake from his other employees and waiting for Bucky. He picked up a box of birthday candles from a CVS on the way to work, and is ready for Bucky’s birthday. The first birthday that Bucky’s had since they met. Steve takes a deep breath, and realizes that Darcy is staring at him, expecting some kind of response.

“Not until Bucky gets here,” he says.

Darcy sighs. “Please tell me that he’s scheduled for lunch today.”

Steve nods. “He’s scheduled 11-4.” It’s 10:52. Not that Steve’s keeping track.

“Everyone’s chatting about that cake,” Darcy says. “You really went all out for this one, ‘lil guy.”

“First,” Steve says, “I’m 5’4’’. That’s average.” Steve doesn’t mention muscle mass. “Second, I found a recipe online that I wanted to try,” Steve mutters, looking at the cake and not Darcy.

“You didn’t find a recipe online for Pietro’s birthday last month.”

“He liked those lemon bars!” Steve looks up at Darcy with wide eyes. “Or, at least he said he did.”

“Oh boo boo, you know he did,” Darcy says, so success. The sad eyes worked. He lets the nickname slide just this once.

Sam comes around, heading behind the bar. “Wow, that’s a cake,” he says as he fills a glass with soda water.

“It’s Bucky’s birthday,” Darcy responds. “Steve found a recipe.”

“A recipe?” Sam asks.

“It looked good,” Steve responds.

Sam places a coaster down on the bar — because he knows Steve would complain if he didn’t — then his drink. He looks over Steve’s head and says, “So does Bucky.”

Steve’s eyes go a little wide as he turns around on his barstool. Bucky walks in, smiling. Sam was right; Bucky looks good. He’s gotten his hair cut recently, and has it slicked back a little. His cheeks are just a little red from the cold, and he’s wearing a black peacoat that hugs his figure. But the thing that Steve likes most is that smile. He wants Bucky to smile always.

“Hey,” Bucky says. “What’s goin’ on here?”

“Steve baked you a cake,” Darcy says. “I’m gonna get everyone over here so you don’t hog it.”

Bucky laughs as Darcy darts off. Knowing her efficiency when it comes to chocolate, Steve thinks they have about ninety seconds before she rounds up the entire staff. Ninety seconds while it’s just Steve and Bucky. And Sam.

“That looks amazing,” Bucky says, looking at the cake. “Thank you.”

“I found a recipe,” Steve croaks. He clears his throat. “I know you like chocolate.”

Bucky smiles, then slides onto the barstool next to Steve’s. Their knees touch a moment, and neither move away.

“I do,” Bucky says. “I like you, too,” Bucky says.

“Happy birthday,” Steve says.

“Thanks,” Bucky responds. He leans in a little closer to Steve. Steve’s heart beats a little more quickly.

“Yeah man, happy birthday,” Sam says from behind the bar, and both Steve and Bucky jump a little.

Bucky laughs. “Thanks Sam.”

Steve takes a deep breath, and seconds later, Darcy and the rest of the staff are crowding over. Someone drops a stack of plates next to the cake, and soon enough, candles are lit and songs are sung. Sam takes a few pictures, and puts one of Bucky blowing out the candles on the restaurant’s Facebook page.

“It’s getting a lot of likes,” Sam says after the initial lunch rush, when he and Steve are in their office together.

“We should put pictures of the staff up more often.”

Sam laughs. “That’s not why they’re liking it.”

Steve sighs, then jumps on the bait. “Why then?”

“Let me read you a couple comments. ‘Is that Steve’s boyfriend? Wish I were dating someone who could make a cake like that!’” Steve slumps. “And another, ‘What a lucky guy!!!’ or how about, ‘Steve is totally sucking that guy’s—‘“

“That is _not_ on the post.”

“Totally is! Right there in black and white!”

“ _Moderate that_ ,” Steve says, using all five feet, four inches of him to look menacing.

“But if it’s—“

“Moderate!” Steve yells, before plugging his ears to Sam’s laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shortish chapter. Next chapter'll be longer/full of misunderstanding and fun. Also this chapter changed 99% since my first draft. Literally. The only thing that stayed the same was Darcy's first line.
> 
> As always: whtaft.tumblr.com


	12. Angel Food Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dum Dum hosts a birthday party for Bucky and invites Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoosh, this took a way more dramatic turn than I had initially intended. I have a few extended warnings at the bottom.

Steve turns to Peggy. “I’m not sure I should—“

“Hush,” Peggy says. “We’ve come too far to turn back now.”

“Twenty blocks isn’t really—“

“We’re going in,” Peggy decides, interrupting Steve _again_. Steve sighs as Peggy reaches out and touches his arm. “It’s only a party. If it’s awful you can leave after saying hello. But you won’t know unless you go inside.”

Steve pulls close to Peggy, rests his head on her shoulder for a moment. He inhales, smelling her perfume and a little lingering yeast, and it’s comforting. “This is why I brought you,” Steve says, trying to mask his gratitude just a little to save face.

Peggy nods and gives his side a quick pat. “C’mon darling, let’s go inside.”

Breathing deep, Steve straightens up, squares his shoulders, and walks inside.

**…**

As a blast of warm, boozy air hits him, he hears Dum Dum yell, “Steve’s here!” The door is just shutting behind Peggy as Dum Dum barrels over, pulling Steve into a quick hug with his meaty arm.

Steve smiles, “Hey Dum Dum.” Dum Dum drops his arm and seems to notice Peggy. “Who’s this?” he asks. “Girlfriend?” He may be imagining it, but Dum Dum’s eyes look a bit steely.

“Peggy Carter,” Peggy says, reaching over Steve’s shoulder to shake Dum Dum’s hand. “We went to culinary school together. My girlfriend will be joining us just as soon as she gets off set.” Dum Dum’s features seem to settle under his mustache. “Actually, have you seen the show _English_?”

Dum Dum’s eyes get wide. “Of course!”

Peggy smiles, looking almost smug. “My Angie plays Dottie.”

“No,” Dum Dum says.

Steve tunes Peggy and Dum Dum out as they chat about the show. Dum Dum is, apparently, their biggest fan, and Peggy is always ready to gush about Angie’s work on the show. Steve takes the opportunity to scan the room. The bar is more crowded than it was the last time Steve was here, after Bucky saved his disastrous date with mac and cheese wedges. There’s a jovial mood all around; as he invited him, Dum Dum had explained that it was a surprise party, and they were expecting a crowd. It doesn’t surprise Steve that Bucky is popular. He’s a great guy.

It takes Steve just a few moments before he finds Bucky. He’s sitting at the end of the bar, surrounded by a few people Steve doesn’t recognize. Namor is just a few seats away, looking bored and disinterested, which makes Steve smile a little. But of course, Bucky captures most of his attention. He looks so good, with his slick hair and long-sleeved black shirt, drink in hand. He’s smiling and laughing and—

And he looks up, making direct eye contact with Steve. Before Steve can look away, Bucky breaks out into a huge grin. Steve smiles back, a little tentative. Then, he’s getting up, saying something to the group around him, and starts walking around the bar. Then through the room. Like he’s walking towards them. He’s walking towards them. In low-riding jeans.

“Steve?” he asks, bright as he reaches them. He wraps an arm around Steve’s shoulder and pulls him in for a quick hug. “I didn’t know you were…”

He looks up at Dum Dum, who says, “I may’ve given Steve here a call last night.” Even as he’s looking away, Bucky keeps his arm around Steve. If Steve were a good guy he’d say something or duck out. But it’s still chilly, and he and Peggy walked over through the cold. And Bucky’s shirt is so soft against the back of his neck. Plus, Steve likes being tucked into Bucky’s side in a way that he hasn’t liked with other guys. There’s nothing possessive about it, it’s not predatory. Bucky’s arm is just a comfortable weight, his body a reassuring presence. For a moment Steve lets himself imagine what it would be like to have Bucky hold him a little tighter, drop a soft kiss onto Steve’s hair.

But he stops that train of thought before it gets out of hand. Besides, Steve knows their respective salaries — there’s no way they could afford a little house with a picket fence with what they’re making right now.

“I thought you were working tonight,” Bucky says. Shaking those stupid thoughts out of his mind, Steve looks up at Bucky. His eyes are all shiny and bright.

“Moved things around. Only owe Hope my left kidney for covering for me.”

Bucky laughs. “Heard that kidneys are hot on the black market right now.” Bucky exhales. “But I’m so happy you could come.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, then adds, “Oh, I’m supposed to tell you that Sam’s sorry he couldn’t make it.”

“That’s alright,” Bucky says.

“And that he’s not here because, quote, ‘somebody at the restaurant has to do their job.’”

Bucky drops his arm. Steve tries to not be disappointed. “That’s not fair,” Bucky says. “You—“

“Bucky!” Someone Steve doesn’t recognize comes up from behind them, half-stumbling into Bucky. “Do a shot with me, bro!” He holds a shot glass out to Bucky, who takes it with a little trepidation. “It’s tequila,” the guy says, holding his own glass out. Bucky rolls his eyes but clinks his glass with the guy’s before downing his shot in one gulp. Bucky’s Adams apple bobs as he swallows. When he finishes, Bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and passes the glass back to the guy.

“You’re an asshole, Clint,” Bucky says. Clint wags his eyebrows before pushing between Steve and Bucky, yelling, “Natasha!”

Steve turns his head, following Clint’s trajectory. Natasha is over by the pool tables, waiting for Clint. She catches Steve’s eye and waves to him with wiggling fingers. Steve waves back with a little smile. They only met the one time, but Steve knows she’s one of Bucky’s closest friends. Not that Steve needs to be sucking up to Bucky’s friends. It’s just good manners, is all, and Bucky has assured Steve that she’s an awesome person.

“Wan’a drink?” Bucky asks, words slurring a little. Steve wonders how long Bucky’s had before that tequila shot. The party has already been going on for an hour or so; Steve and Peggy were fashionably late.

“Um, Pegs?” Steve asks, looking to her.

Peggy waves him off. “Go ahead. I’ll entertain myself until Angie gets here.”

Before Steve can double and triple check, Bucky slings his arm around Steve’s shoulders again and steers Steve towards the bar.

“This whole thing was a surprise,” Bucky says, voice low and leaning towards Steve’s ear. He’s on Steve’s left, and Steve appreciates that Bucky is close to his hearing aid. “I don’t think I’ve had a birthday party since I was ten.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Bucky repeats with soft smile and lidded eyes. Steve is pretty sure that he’s had a few drinks already.

“Happy to celebrate with you.”

Bucky gives Steve’s shoulders a squeeze. A few people say hello or cheer as they pass them, and Bucky says hello or waves, but he doesn’t let Steve go. “I dunno her,” Bucky admits after a woman gives him a flirty wave. “I think Dum Dum is tryin’ to get laid tonight.”

“Or he’s trying to get _you_ laid,” Steve jokes.

Bucky doesn’t respond. He slows their pace, looking Steve up and down as he hums, thoughtful. Steve swallows hard, a shiver running down his spine.

But before Steve has a chance to decode that look, Bucky picks up his pace again. In a few short steps they make it to the bar. “Tom Collins?” Bucky asks.

Steve looks down to the wood of the bar, trailing his fingers along it. “Actually, uh, just a Coke.”

“You alright?” Bucky asks, all concern. When he looks at Steve that way all Steve wants is to turn into Bucky’s chest and have Bucky wrap both arms around him. But Steve can’d o that, so he mumbles, “I started taking a new medication. I shouldn’t drink.”

“Want me to make you somethin’?” Bucky asks.

Restraining a smile, Steve says, “It’s your birthday party. I couldn’t—“

“But do you want me to?” Bucky interrupts with a goofy grin on his face.

Steve can’t help it. He grins back. “Sure,” he says. “If you want.”

“Watch me,” Bucky says. He pushes himself up on the bar, swings his legs over and lands on the other side. Steve laughs, and a few people sitting in the area cheer. Jim shakes his head at Bucky from behind the bar, but he’s smiling. Bucky gives an exaggerated little curtsey and Steve laughs. “I know wha you like,” Bucky says, leaning over the bar to talk to Steve. “You trust me?”

For a moment, Steve’s breathless. Does Bucky remember that day a few months ago? When they _really_ talked for the first time? He asked the same question, gave Steve the same look. And Steve’s reaction to it hasn’t changed; he’s nervous and excited. He wonders if Bucky is the same.

“Yeah,” Steve says, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “I do.”

**…**

The drink is delicious. He uses a zingy ginger ale — a hipster brand that’s almost biter — and mixes it with fresh pear juice. He adds two mint leaves and a squeeze of lemon.

“I love it,” Steve says after he takes a swig.

“It sneaks up on ya,” Bucky says from behind the bar. “Sorta like you.” Before Steve can respond, Bucky starts fiddling behind the bar again. “Lemme make somethin’ for myself. Wait there, ‘kay?”

Steve nods and watches Bucky work.

A good chef doesn’t waste time or energy. They set up their station methodically, moving with a practiced hand, full of concentration. Their movements are precise; a kitchen is clockwork, and a chef keeps it going. Bucky is the same behind the bar. He pours and shakes, mixes and squeezes with no hesitation. He looks natural, biting his bottom lip as he concentrates on pouring his drink out of a martini shaker into a rocks glass.

When he’s done Bucky swings himself back over the bar again, keeping his drink impressively steady in his hand.

“Surprised you didn’t spill,” Steve says, impressed.

“Gotta lotta practice,” Bucky says, beaming. He holds his glass out. “To us,” he says.

“And your birthday,” Steve adds.

They smile at each other, tipping their glasses against each other. They each take a long sip. They don’t break eye contact.

When Steve is done, he puts his glass down on the bar and clears his throat. “You know you don’t, uh, have to babysit me,” he starts. Bucky’s brow furrows. I mean, it’s your party, your friends. You should spend it with whoever you want.”

“What if I wanna spend it with you?” Bucky asks.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Steve responds, heart beating fast.

“Hang with me then,” Bucky says. His eyes are wide, vulnerable. “Stay with me.”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. “Alright.”

**…**

Steve spends the night at Bucky’s side, kibbutzing with his friends and laughing at their jokes. Angie makes it and she and Bucky hit it off almost instantly, their spunky charm dazzling both each other and everyone around them. “They seem happy,” Bucky says to Steve, glancing over to where Peggy and Angie are speaking to each other, holding hands.

“I think they are,” Steve says. Usually he’d be jealous, but right now, with Bucky at his side, he’s fine.

Bucky is attentive, dashing back and forth to the bar to whip Steve up another drink and introducing Steve around. It’s so nice, this fun evening with Bucky.

It feels like a date.

It feels like the best date Steve has been on in a long long time.

**…**

He holds on pretty well, but Bucky gets progressively drunker as the night goes on. He told Steve early on that he wanted to let loose a little for his birthday, and that Dum Dum promised to keep an eye on him. So when Bucky gesticulates a little too wildly while telling Steve a story about his day job as a caterer while he was working the night shift at the bar and spills his drink on his shirt, it’s Dum Dum who whisks Bucky off to the bathroom. “Hang tight,” he tells Steve. “I’ll take care of this one,” he adds, pointing to Bucky. Bucky grins, pulling his wet shirt away from his chest a little.

It’s cute.

So Steve tries to wait. But it’s late and the party is winding down, and Steve has never been a patient person. Peggy and Angie left over an hour ago, and now there are only a handful of people left, most of whom Steve doesn’t know. After a few boring minutes, Steve heads down the hall to the bathroom, wanting to see if there’s anything he can do to help.

“I like ‘im," Steve hears Bucky slur just as he begins to push the door open. He knows he shouldn’t, but he doesn’t enter just yet. “Jus…” Bucky continues, “He’s so _smart_. And his smile is… Wow. Jus’ wow.” He hears Dum Dum’s hearty chuckle. Steve’s knuckles turn white against the door handle, and he tries to loosen up. “When he smiles and I make him smile… I feel like it’s all for somethin’, y’know? Somethin’.”

“Whatever you say, Sarge,” Dum Dum responds, sounding good-natured.

“Jus’, so fluffy,” Bucky says. Steve’s heart drops. There’s nothing fluffy about him.

“It’s just a towel, Sarge,” Dum Dum says, and Steve breathes again.

“I wanna be with him,” Bucky says, resolute. “I dunno if he’d wanna, I mean, there was someone else, and… I…”

“I don’t think you’ve got much to worry about, Bucky.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah,” Dum Dum agrees.

Steve swallows hard. He shouldn’t be listening to this, and he shouldn’t be reading into whatever Bucky is saying. He could be talking about anyone in the whole world; there’s no reason Steve should think that it’s him. Closing the door carefully, Steve takes a few steps down the hall. He shuts his eyes, counts to twenty, then heads back to the door and walks inside.

“Hey…” he starts, but trails off.

Bucky is sitting on the counter, next to a sink, a towel slung around his neck. Dum Dum is next to him, leaning against the side of the stalls. Bucky’s shirt hangs on the stall next to Dum Dum, leaving Bucky shirtless.

“Steve,” Dum Dum starts as Bucky takes a loud, shallow breath.

It’s at that moment Steve realizes he’s never seen Bucky in anything other than long sleeves.

The burn marks begin just above Bucky’s left wrist, red and swirling up his arm. The burns continue up his shoulder and down the left side of his torso, a few tendrils swirling out onto his stomach. There’s a patch of discoloration on his shoulder, which Steve would guess is from a skin graft. Steve must be staring, but he can’t look away. He hadn’t known. He should’ve realized.

“No,” Bucky says, after a beat. He scrambles off the counter, towel dropping on the floor in the process. “Don’t look,” he says, grabbing at his shirt. It slips and falls to the floor; Bucky turns, exposing the burns on his shoulder blades and back. Bucky is breathing hard, and Dum Dum is trying to talk him down, moving to block Bucky from Steve’s view.

“Bucky,” Steve starts, but all he can hear is Bucky’s labored breathing. “Bucky, it’s okay. Bucky—“

“Steve,” Dum Dum says, turning around. Steve looks around him and sees Bucky in his shirt again. He’s got his hands braced on the counter, his head hanging. “You need to go outside.”

“But—“ Steve tries, feeling helpless.

“I’ve got this,” Dum Dum says, firm. Steve gets the feeling that Dum Dum has handled this before.

After taking a deep breath, Steve says, “Alright.” He backs out of the bathroom, and turns back into the little hall. Steve slinks down against a wall and sits with his knees drawn up to his chest. He shuts his eyes, thinking of the pain and shock in Bucky’s voice, the ragged sound of his breathing. Steve swallows hard and makes himself small, waiting for Bucky to come out again.

**…**

Steve doesn’t keep track of the time, but the bar grows quiet as he waits. After what feels like an eternity, the bathroom door opens. Steve’s head snaps up to see Dum Dum emerge, and the door closing.

“I knew you wouldn’t be too far away,” Dum Dum says.

“How is he?” Steve asks.

Dum Dum sighs. “He’s drunk,” he says. “Which makes all this worse. He’s not as self-conscious as he used to be, but he likes to let people know on his own terms.”

“Those burns…” Steve starts, not knowing how to ask.

“Car explosion. He was thrown but still conscious. Dragged himself back in to grab a few guys. Monty was one.” Steve stars at the ground. “He’s got a Purple Heart somewhere, doubt he’s shown it off. Spent two months in the hospital. He nearly lost his arm.”

Steve feels sick. “I should…” Steve tries, but he doesn’t know what he should say.

“He didn’t feel up to explaining all this to you,” Dum Dum says. “But he wanted you to know.” Steve looks up again. “And then he asked me to ask you to go.”

Steve’s throat feels dry..

“Don’t take it the wrong way. He just wants to go home.”

“Should I…?” Steve gestures lamely towards the door.

“I’m taking him back to my place,” Dum Dum says. “Gonna grab some greasy food on the way there, sober him up a little.”

“He can take tomorrow off if he wants,” Steve suggests.

“I’ll mention that, but he probably won’t.” Dum Dum looks away, takes a deep breath. “He’s okay. It’s just a process. A process that never stops, but a process. He’s been doing better. The Howling Commando’s been good to him.” He pauses. “You’ve been good for him.” Steve’s eyes feel wet and he blinks away a few tears. “And it’s good you know, I think. Before anything happens.”

“What’d you mean?” Steve asks.

Dum Dum sighs, shaking his head with a smile. “You tell me.” Steve raises an eyebrow. Dum Dum chuckles and offers Steve a hand. “C’mob slugger,” he says. “Bucky told me to get you a cab.” Steve opens his mouth to to say no, but Dum Dum beats him to it. “Don’t try arguing—he made me promise.”

“He’s nice,” Steve says, steady on his feet.

“Yeah, he is,” Dum Dum agrees.

**…**

When Steve walks in, Bucky is at the bar polishing glassware. He appears like normal, maybe with heavier bags beneath his eyes. Doesn’t matter—Steve has bags to match.

Steve takes a breath, readjusts his grip on the reusable grocery bag he has with him, and heads to the bar. Bucky glances up, then back down to the glass he’s polishing. His cheeks are red.

“Hey Bucky,” Steve says, hoisting his bag onto the bar and sitting down on a stool.

“Mornin’,” Bucky responds.

“So about last night,” Steve begins. Bucky flinches a little, and Steve winces a little at his word choice. First time at bat and he swings the bat into his own stupid face. “I forgot to give you a gift,” he adds, quick.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Bucky mumbles.

“Too late,” Steve responds. He slides the bag over to Bucky. “Take a look but don’t take it out of the bag, or else everyone will try to get some.” Bucky gives a little half smile, and as Bucky looks inside the bag, Steve explains, “It’s an angel food cake roll with a key lime marshmallow fluff frosting. Topped with powdered sugar.” Bucky keeps looking into the bag and Steve shifts, uncomfortable. “You liked Peggy’s key lime pie that one time, so I thought…” Steve trails off, feeling suddenly overbearing and invasive.

Bucky takes a deep breath. “This looks amazing,” he says.

“Peggy helped,” Steve admits. “I’m not a pastry chef, and somehow stew didn’t seem like a very good gift.”

Bucky laughs, a low, sweet sound. “Thank you, Steve.” He looks up and repeats, “Thank you.”

Steve looks down, and sees Bucky’s hands, each resting on the bar. Swallowing hard, Steve reaches out for Bucky’s left hand. He’s slow, and rests his on top of Bucky’s, as gentle as he can be. He looks up to Bucky, checking to see if it’s okay. Bucky is looking at Steve with wide blue eyes and an expression Steve cannot read. Bucky begins to draw back, and Steve is already forming his apology. But then Bucky doesn’t take his hand away. Instead, he slowly takes Steve’s hand in his, interlacing their fingers until they’re holding hands over the bar.

They stay this way for a few moments, Steve’s eyes darting from their hands, then back to Bucky, and down again.

He wants to know what Bucky is thinking as he looks at their hands. He wants to know what this means for the two of them. He wants to know who Bucky was talking about in the bathroom. He wants to know if it was him.

But most of all, he wants to know if his palms are clammy, and if it’s grossing Bucky out.

Nobody is perfect. Steve has clammy hands and a thin body he’s tried to cover with tattoos. One of his ears barely works and sometimes he just can’t breathe. Now he’s started anti-anxiety medicine that makes it so he can’t drink alcohol or eat grapefruit. He’s not perfect, but this? This moment?

It feels perfect.

Hand shaking, Steve disentangles his finger’s from Bucky’s. “I’ve gotta get to the kitchen,” Steve explains, apologetic. “I need to start on my mise en place.”

“Alright,” Bucky says.

“Will you tell me how the cake is?” Steve asks, knowing he’s stalling. “After you have some?”

“I’ll text you,” Bucky says. “I promise.”

“Okay,” Steve says, lingering.

“Alright,” Bucky responds.

With a final nod, Steve walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Alcohol use, drunkenness, body hatred (also body acceptance), talk of past military experiences.
> 
> Things're winding down. Only three chapters left. I promise that all will be resolved, and soon. And it'll all be cuter because I know that I initially promised this fic would just be cute. I'm sorry that the melodrama calls to me and I am unable to resist its siren call.


	13. Bluefish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky represent the Howling Commando at a food festival where they meet Tony Stark, Pepper Potts and Colonel Rhodes.

Steve has never enjoyed food festivals. They’re hot and sticky, filled with bugs that sting and children with grubby hands. People line up and breathe on Steve and ask why he’s not cooking faster while they expect him to entertain them with showy cooking techniques and stories about _Top Chef_. Steve tries to avoid food festivals, he really does. He cites his asthma — or his sheer pissy mood — as an excuse. But when Art Smith gave him a call, asking if he’d be part of a food festival to raise money for Common Threads, Steve couldn’t exactly say no.

But it’s okay. He’s having a nice time today.

“Look alive, Rogers,” Bucky says, bumping Steve’s hip with his own. People are starting to wander into the large gazebo-ish structure that they’ve set them all up in. It’s a smallish festival, with a price tag to get in, and the group is bourgeois and dressed in the latest resort wear from the runway. There are about twenty restaurants represented, including the Howling Commando. They’re near the water, and there’s a nice breeze, a respite from the heat of the grill Steve has on. On the other side of the gazebo, a five-piece band plays playful jazz tunes.

Bucky hums along with the music, his hips swaying as he mixes up pitchers of lavender lemonade and pear spritzers, measuring out shots of gin to be added if guests have an over-21 wristband. Steve is just finishing up his first batch of food when the guests descend.

There are about four hundred guests, which isn’t a simple service, but Steve manages to keep pace.There’s the usual schmoozing, and of course a few people ask for a photo with him. Bucky — whose role at this shindig is a lot simpler than Steve’s — innocently offers to take the picture for them. Steve shoots Bucky a glare, though he smiles for the photo. He’s not an ass, and the last thing he needs is for the Howling Commando to get press because he was rude to someone at a food festival.

“You alright?” Bucky asks as things are beginning to die down.

“Yeah,” Steve responds. “A little sweaty,” he adds, because there’s no use denying it. Flipping fish on a charcoal grill for four hours doesn’t leave you pristine.

Bucky laughs. “Hydrate,” he says, and before Steve can say that he doesn’t feel like a fruity drink right now, Bucky passes him a bottle of water.

“Thanks,” Steve says, taking it from him. Their fingers brush, and Steve turns away quick. He takes a long drag from the bottle, feeling like the smitten heroine of an Edwardian novel. Except he’s bisexual and asthmatic. Honestly, those are probably the only things that really separate him from being the male Elizabeth Bennett. But, then again, the bisexual thing is definitely up for grabs — Elizabeth _was_ pretty upset when she found out Charlotte Lucas was getting married.

“Steve,” Bucky says, looking a little urgent.

“Wha—“ Steve begins, forgetting that he was in the process of drinking his water. His mouthful of water dribbles out, spilling onto his chin and chef’s coat.

Stifling a laugh, Bucky says, “Didn’t mean to startle ya, but we’ve got company.”

Steve turns, much to the amusement of a group of three people standing in front of his table.

“Hey there, Shamu. Mind if we chat?” asks the guy in the middle, a middle-aged man with dark hair; he’s wearing sunglasses and a purposefully disheveled suit, and Steve can feel the asshole ooze off of him.

“Shush Tony, SeaWorld is immoral,” says the woman next to him. She’s tall and effortless in a breezy white blouse and navy slacks, her strawberry blonde hair pulled into a ponytail. “May I?” she asks, gesturing to the little plates Steve has laid out.

“Of course,” Steve responds. Each of the three take a plate and fork as Steve explains, “That’s grilled sustainable bluefish collar. It’s got a sesame and white pepper rub, just a little flash before going on the grill. And I’m serving it with a rice vinegar and a zesty lime sauce.”

“What’s in the sauce?” she asks.

“Lime, rice vinegar, garlic, and a little white pepper.”

“Sounds heavy on the acid,” she responds.

Steve shrugs. “The sesame balances it out, as well as the texture of the fish.”

He watches as she takes a bite. “It’s…” she pauses. “It’s just on the cusp,” she says. “But it’s just so balanced; it’s delicate on the tongue. Perfect for the occasion.”

“Thank you,” Steve says with a nod, feeling a little embarrassed. He’s just not used to people giving him such articulate, thought-out comments like that.

“You said sustainable?” the other man asks between bites.

Steve nods. “Picked it up from Greenpoint Market this morning. It’s not always easy, but I try to keep things local and sustainable as I can, especially my menu’s specials.”

“Did you buy the collars already butchered?” the woman asks.

“No,” Steve responds. “Bought the fishes whole. I butchered them with my staff this morning. The filets are one of tonight’s specials at the restaurant.”

“Well,” the first man — Tony — begins. “Guess he’s the one.”

“Excuse me?” Steve asks, raising an eyebrow.

“See, he’s even an asshole! He’ll fit in just fine.” The woman shakes her head and the other man rolls his eyes.

“Ignore him,” the woman says. She sets her plate down on the edge of the table and reaches out a French-manicured hand. Steve shakes it. “Pepper Potts,” she says. “The idiot next to me is Tony Stark, and this is our friend Colonel Rhodes.”

“Rhodey,” he adds with a nod.

Behind him, Steve can hear Bucky drop something. “Steve Rogers,” he says. Pepper drops her hand. Steve half-turns back to Bucky, both to introduce him and check on him. He’s watching the scene with wide eyes. “This is my…” Steve looks at Bucky, swallows hard. “M-my…” He stutters out. And then he remembers. “This is my bartender.”

He doesn’t know why he fumbled so badly with Bucky’s title. It’s not like he’s been anything else to Steve. Friend, sure. But he’s still an employee. All he can do is hope that Bucky didn’t notice.

“Now that introductions are finished,” Tony starts, forcing Steve out of his Bucky thoughts, “We’ve got a business proposition for you.”

“Sorry. I’m not doing private events right now.”

“No,” Tony says. “We’re thinking bigger.”

**…**

“They want the restaurant to be completely sustainable. They’ve got a greenhouse on the top of Stark Tower for produce, and they’re already in talks with some fish mongers and farmers,” Steve explains to Sam that night. They’re in their office, Sam sitting at the desk, Steve standing against the wall.

“Where would it be?” Sam asks.

“First floor of Stark Tower. They’re redoing it entirely.”

“So, Manhattan.”

“They told me I wouldn’t have to stay on permanently. I would just create the concept and open it. Then I’d take on a consulting role — help plan menus, events, things like that.”

Sam sighs. “How long?”

Steve crosses his arms. He looks up and takes a deep breath. “They’re estimating six months—“ Sam swears. “But I think that’s being a little optimistic.”

“So?”

“Eight. Maybe nine if construction hits a snag.” He hazards a glance over to Sam. He’s rubbing his temples, eyes shut. “I don’t know what I’m going to do yet.”

“Of course you do,” Sam says, dropping his hands and looking at Steve. Steve looks down.

“I won’t if we’re not stable.”

“We are,” Sam says. “You know we are. Hope will take over as executive chef. You’ll still come in for seasonal menu planning. You’ll come in and expedite once a month. Stop in once a week.” Sam’s voice gets a little thick. “Ext me every day, because I’ll miss working with my best friend.”

It only takes Steve a few seconds to move across the room. Sam stands up just in time for Steve to pull him into a tight, tight hug. “Just six months,” Steve promises.

“Eight,” Sam responds.

Steve hugs him tighter.

Eight months and a new restaurant. It’s not saying goodbye, not even close.

But it feels like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost at the finish line! I want to post the final chapter and the epilogue together, so it may be a little longer between posting times. But who knows how long it'll be if I keep writing as fast as I have for the past couple chapters.
> 
> As always, you can find me in the pit. Or at whtaft.tumblr.com.


	14. Falafel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Steve's last day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I was gonna post the last two chapters together, but I lied. I just had a crappy week and am gonna have a crappy weekend and wanted to write something that made me happy and share it. I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Steve sits at the end of the bar. Then he looks around, stands up and sits on _top_ of the end of the bar, spinning around so his feet are dangling on the inside of it and he’s facing Bucky. There aren’t any customers there, which isn’t unusual for the end of service on a Wednesday night. A few tables are still finishing up, but the kitchen is shutting down, just pushing out a few more desserts. They didn’t need Steve any longer. So he decides that he can sit on the bar, just this once. He’s always wanted to, and this seems like the perfect opportunity.

Bucky walks over, a big smile on his face. “Look’t you,” he says. “Big shot restauranteur visitin’ the likes of me.” Steve looks down. It’s been a busy few weeks, he rationalizes. It doesn’t make him feel better. That isn’t why he’s been avoiding the bar. “Hey,” Bucky says, poking Steve’s arm. “I didn’t mean nothin’.”

Steve shakes his head. “No, I should’ve—“

“Steve, buddy,” Bucky interrupts. “Don’t start with the should’ves and the would’ves. It’s not like you’re leavin’ forever.”

“No,” Steve says, glancing up in time to see Bucky’s features soften. It looks like he’s relieved. Or it could be Steve hallucinating; it’s been a long week. “But things will change. I’ll change. People change. It’ll be different.” He clears his throat, but can’t keep what he’s been thinking for the past few weeks in anymore. “I love this place,” he says, looking at the smooth bar. “I love everything about it. I loved it when I wrote the first menu and when Sam found the location. I love getting four hours of sleep and going to the fish market at four in the morning. I love it when I have to wake Sam up in the office. I love everyone who works here. I…” He swallows hard, tears prickling his eyes. “I love it how it is _now_. Right now. And it’s gonna…” He trails off, huffing a rough sigh and pretending that a tear just didn’t slip from his eye.

“Steve, hey,” Bucky says, voice soft. He reaches out and holds Steve’s arm, gentle. He leans down, and Steve pulls his gaze away from the bar. Bucky’s eyes are so, so blue. “Things change. Shit’d be borin’ if it didn’t.” Steve chuckles. “There ya go,” Bucky says, smiling, eyes crinkling up. “And even if things change, I’ll be right here, behind this bar, ‘till the end of the line.”

Steve swallows. “You could get a better offer.”

“Nah,” Bucky responds, pulling his hand away. “Don’t think I could. Popular place, creative outlet, good friends.” He pauses. “Best boss.”

“Bosses,” Steve corrects, because Sam is just as in charge as he is.

“Yeah, good friends,” Bucky repeats. “Best boss.” Bucky looks so earnest, his smile fading, his hand still on Steve’s arm.

“Aw shucks,” Steve says, looking back down as his cheeks feel warm. He adds, quieter, “Besides, I won’t be your boss anymore. Or it’ll be different.”

“It’ll change,” Bucky says, nonchalant. “But I’ll still let you boss me around, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he adds, so somber that Steve can’t help but bark out a laugh.

But then the laugh leaves him as soon as it came.

Because Steve’s mind is reeling. Steve won’t be Bucky’s boss anymore, or at least not in the same way. Sure, he would still be in name, but with Sam handling the day-to-day operations of the restaurant, things _will_ change. And maybe that change wouldn’t be a bad thing. Maybe that change could be… something.

Steve looks up at Bucky, and he feels his heart beating in his chest.

There’s a moment of silence where they just look at one another, Steve trying to figure out what he can say to Bucky. But then Bucky looks away, fidgeting. “‘M I losin’ ya, bud?”

“No, um,” Steve starts. “You’re not losing me.”

“You just got quiet. Not used to that.”

“Just thinking.”

“‘Bout what?”

“It’s that I,” Steve starts, but he shakes his head, takes a breath. “I’m not really your boss anymore, and maybe that’s a good thing.”

“A good thing?” Bucky asks, face falling.

“No, no, I mean. It’s just.” Steve wants to look down, look away, look anywhere but at Bucky, who is looking at home with wide, concerned eyes. He’s really beautiful. He’s really wonderful. He’s the guy who remembered he wanted a Tom Collins, even when he’d barely spoken a sentence to him.

He’s Bucky. And Steve wants to be with him, wants to be with him so bad.

So he takes a breath and asks, “Would you want to go out sometime? With me?” He exhales. “Now that it’s not a conflict of interest.”

There’s a moment of quiet. Steve can hear the rattle of dishes as a table gets busted, the soft chatter of patrons in the dining room. An apology forms on the tip of Steve’s tongue, but his mouth goes too dry to say it. He adds, lamely, “At least, not as much of one,” looking down and feeling like a jerk.

But then something amazing happens. Bucky laughs. And then he snorts.

“You dork!” Bucky exclaims, laughing. Steve can’t help but laugh along with him. Bucky’s grin is wide and happy. “I don’t think it’d be too much of a conflict of interest,” he says. “And it’s very in my interest.”

“In your interest?” Steve asks.

Bucky scrunches up his nose. “That was lame.”

“It was great,” Steve says, trying to be reassuring.

Bucky just keeps smiling, looking at Steve like he can’t _stop_ , and for a moment, a blissful moment, Steve thinks that maybe change can be good.

“You hungry?” Bucky asks.

“Huh?”

“We could grab somethin’. Go back to my place and eat. There’s a good falafel stand near my apartment. They’re open late.”

“I love falafel,” Steve says. “And I’m starving.”

“Yeah?” Steve nods. “That’s, uh, I should go grab my jacket, and we can, uh…” Bucky makes like he’s gonna leave, and before he knows what he’s doing, Steve raises his legs up, blocking Bucky’s way out from the bar. “Hey,” Bucky says.

“One sec,” Steve says, grabbing the sleeve of Bucky’s shirt. “Could you just…” He tugs Bucky over and straightens his own posture. Legs still up, and fingers clenching Bucky’s shirt, Steve closes the distance between them and kisses Bucky.

He hears Bucky give a small breath of surprise, but then feels him relax. Bucky pulls in, places a gentle hand on the side of Steve’s face and lets the kiss linger. When they pull apart — just inches — Bucky says, quietly, “Wanted to kiss the cook for a long time now.”

“Me too,” Steve says.

Bucky pulls away, smirking. “Wanted to kiss yourself?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Don’t think I do,” Bucky taunts. “Think I needa hear you say it.”

“Shut up and kiss me again,” Steve says.

“Bossy,” Bucky responds, but he’s pulling in close again. “But I like you that way.”

They kiss again, but it only feels like moments when Sam shouts across the room, “Steve Rogers get your bony ass off my bar and lips off my bartender and _go home_.” Bucky pulls away laughing as Steve scowls and flips Sam off. “Or go to _his_ home I don’t give a shit Rogers but I need to lock up.”

“Falafel?” Bucky asks, when he stops laughing.

“Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DID YOU SEE THAT? BUCKY KISSED THE COOK! THAT'S THE TITLE OF THE FIC!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! When I finish the epilogue, I want to write an extra that's Steve and Bucky's first date. So look out for that!
> 
> As always, you can find me at whtaft.tumblr.com. This week will be REALLY special because I'm going to be in SENIOR THESIS LOCKDOWN MODE until the 26th, so you can probably see me spiral until then.


	15. Epilogue: Another Tom Collins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years later: Steve and Bucky are guest judges on a special episode of Top Chef.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The grand finale! I want to just say how appreciative I am for the support I've gotten while writing this story. These past few months have been really hard for me for a lot of reasons, and this fic kept me writing, smiling, and being creative when nothing seemed to be going right. Everyone's support has completely floored me: there are people who have commented on every chapter, and who have lifted me up when I was feeling down, and I don't think you all could ever know just how much your kind words have meant to me during this tough time.
> 
> While there are so, so many people to thank for helping me with this fic, I want to give a special shoutout to biblionerd07 for encouraging me when I was stuck in general, and for helping me with this chapter, specifically. You are the greatest, and I hope this chapter meets your expectations.
> 
> Without further hoopla, I give you Steve, Bucky, and so many feelings.

“This was a mistake,” Steve says as he paces the length of the green room. He’s been pacing since they were ushered in there fifteen minutes ago, and Bucky is almost worried that Steve is going to look sweaty on camera. But then Steve pauses, turns to Bucky, and narrows his eyes. Logically, Bucky knows that Steve can’t read his mind. Doesn’t mean that he can’t be unsure.

“Your collar is crooked,” Steve says, closing the gap between them with grabby hands.

Bucky sighs, but allows Steve to fuss. “Babe, Steve, you do realize that you’re wearin’ stained jeans and a Howlin’ Commando t-shirt so old you can’t even read the logo. You know that, right?”

Steve grunts as he flattens out the collar to his liking. “Difference is that I’ve been on this show before. They know I’m a mess. Don’t wanna drag you down with me.”

Bucky sighs, but he can’t help his little smile as he looks down at Steve’s concentrating face. “I’ll have you know last season’s shirtless Quickfire was my personal favorite. In fact, I think it was your best performance on _either_ season of _Top Chef_.”

Steve slumps against Bucky, and Bucky instinctively wraps his arms around him, pressing a kiss onto his hair. “Hated that challenge,” Steve mutters, burying his head on Bucky’s chest.

“Steve, you _won_ that challenge.” He lowers his voice, trying to make it a little husky, a little sexy. “That’s when you won that trip to the Terlato vineyard in Napa Valley.”

Steve hums. “That was a nice trip,” he admits, a little hoarse.

“See? Not so bad. Kinda like that blowjob you gave me in the Terlato—“

Steve pinches Bucky’s side before Bucky can finish his sentence. It doesn’t hurt, but Bucky yelps for effect. Steve doesn’t pull away, though, just wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist.

The challenge itself was ridiculous. It was one of the first challenges of _Top Chef Season 20: All-Stars_. One chef was each season was chosen, and Steve was the Season 15 representative and eventual winner. But for this particular challenge, Steve’s win was a surprise. The contestants were roused from bed at the crack of dawn and shepherded down to the fire station across the street. They had to use whatever was on hand to create a filling breakfast for on-duty firemen before they returned on their firetruck. The kitchen was small, and Katsuji Tanabe from season 12 shoved Steve out of his place on the stove. Rather than trying to force his way back in, Steve used some MRE packets and a flameless heater he found in a back cabinet to make an andouille breakfast risotto that was innovative, delicious, and filling.

Katsuji’s breakfast taco was on the bottom.

The only problem was that Steve had slept shirtless. Now, Bucky loves every part of Steve, from his corn gold hair to his cold feet., but Steve can be self-conscious about his body. Bucky may not see why he should be, but he understands the sentiment. To make matters worse, Padma cracked a joke about it — the shirtless state, not Steve’s body — and the firefighter next to her stripped off his shirt to give to a shivering Steve. The firefighter had a six-pack, and his shirt was huge on Steve’s small frame. In a season of victories, that challenge felt like a defeat.

A production assistant sticks her head in the green room, a headset on her curly hair. “If I’m not interrupting anything weird, they’re ready for you guys.”

Bucky laughs. Steve sighs, then says, “Alright America. Be there in a sec.”

Steve pulls back with a sigh.

“Babe?” Bucky says, face grave.

“Yeah?” Steve responds.

“Your head made my collar more crooked than it was before.”

“Oh, fu—“

**…**

“Okay everyone,” Padma says. “Are you ready for your elimination challenge?”

There’s a chorus of “Yes” from the gathered line of _Top Chef_ contestants.

Steve grabs Bucky’s left hand. Bucky gives Steve’s hand a little squeeze. “You ready?” he whispers.

“I’m with you,” Steve responds, “So yeah.”

Bucky bites his lip. He has just enough time to whisper, “I love you” before they’re being ushered into the Top Chef Kitchen, met with applause and a few hollers from the chefs when they recognize Steve.

“Everyone,” Padma says, “I’d like to introduce _Top Chef_ Season 15 finalist and _Top Chef_ All-Stars winner, Steve Rogers, and his fiancé, Bucky Barnes!” There’s more applause, and Steve ducks his head a little, terrible at taking praise. Bucky smiles at Steve, unable to restrain his fond expression. “And,” Padma adds,” If you didn’t know, Bucky Barnes is one of New York’s most sought-after mixologists. Stationed at the Howling Commando with Steve, Bucky has also worked with David Chang, Jean-Georges Vongerichten, and other top-notch chefs.” Steve nudges Bucky’s side, and it’s Bucky’s turn to blush.

“And,” Padma begins in a serious tone. The contestants visibly still. “They’re getting married tomorrow.” The chefs move again. One groans; another grabs his hair like he’s about to pull it all out right there. “That’s right — it’s Wedding Wars!” There are a few cheers, but they’re decidedly less enthusiastic. “But Padma adds, with a twist.”

“Of course,” one contestant says with a huff as the others chuckle.

“You’ve already been split into teams for the mise en place Quickfire challenge.” One contestant goes wide-eyed, glancing at his teammates with something akin to terror. Bucky, thankfully, doesn’t laugh. “Each team will be assigned a groom, and create a menu that caters to their individual tastes. However, you’ll also be responsible for an accompanying drink menu. Each entrée your team produces _must_ have a corresponding cocktail pairing, and at least one of those cocktails must be non-alcoholic.” That was Bucky’s special addition to the challenge. He didn’t want any of their guests to feel like they _had_ to drink to be in on the fun. Padma turns to the group of chefs wearing blue aprons. “Blue Team, since you won the Quickfire challenge, you can choose which groom you would like to cook for.”

It takes the Blue Team about four seconds to choose Bucky. “They think you’ll be easier,” Steve says with a snort as the hair-pulling guy — apparently on the Red Team — swears.

“Well, they’re not wrong.” Steve jabs Bucky — lightly— with his elbow, and the contestants laugh.

**…**

“They’re gonna fuck up the cake,” Steve says that night as he pulls on one of Bucky’s old t-shirts. Bucky is lounging on their bed, still fully clothed. He’s got a bag all packed to take to Sam’s for the night, where he’s going to sleep. He’s not traditional, but Bucky doesn’t want to jinx their wedding in any way, even if that means spending the night away from Steve.

“First of all, it’s cakes. Plural. Each team’s gotta make one,” Bucky says. Steve turns around just so he can make sure that Bucky is paying attention as he rolls his eyes. Bucky smiles, “And either way, Peggy is makin’ us a back-up cake. We will eat cake. It will be delicious. You don’t gotta worry.” After Steve and Bucky decided to sell-out and let _Top Chef_ cater — and pay for the majority of — their wedding, they asked Peggy to make a cake, knowing that contestants usually mess up the cakes. Even if it’s the backup, Bucky is sure the cake will be spectacular.

“But that wouldn’t be our _first_ cake,” Steve says, dropping his dirty laundry on the floor and hopping into bed. He lands with a bony elbow to Bucky’s stomach and Bucky grunts. “Sorry,” Steve says, adjusting himself so that he’s laying by Bucky’s side. He leans over and kisses where he elbowed.

“Swear to God you’re like a bull in a china shop,” Bucky says, fond.

“You still like me though,” Steve says, a little smug from where he’s nuzzled up against Bucky’s chest. He’s still got his glasses on, meaning that he’s not ready to go to sleep just yet, but his eyes are closed and his soft breath tickles Bucky’s skin.

Bucky sighs, purposefully overdramatic. “Sure,” he says. “Guess you’re okay.”

Steve’s head poops up and he looks over at Bucky. “Don’t kid tonight,” he says, frowning.

“What’s up?” Bucky asks, sitting up a bit so his back is against the headboard of the bed.

Steve sighs, lifting himself and shifting so he’s sitting cross-legged, facing Bucky. Bucky’s shirt slips down his shoulder, exposing his collarbone. Bucky wonders if it’d be ill-advised to give his fiancé a hickey the night before their wedding. Probably would be. Doesn’t mean Bucky doesn’t want to.

“You could still back out,” Steve says. Bucky resists the urge to groan.

“Promise I won’t.” Steve raises an eyebrow. “C’mon Steve, babe, I’m the one who proposed to you. I wanna marry you so bad. Maybe I’m the one who should worry. Maybe you’ll—“

“I’d never,” Steve huffs, little angry lines forming as he furrows his brow. He looks like he’s full of righteous rage, like he’d go out and punch anybody who’d dare to abandon Bucky at the altar.

It’s so, so cute.

“Me neither,” Bucky responds. Steve deflates a little.

“I’m just nervous,” Steve admits, quiet. Bucky’s features soften. Steve isn’t someone who likes to talk about his feelings; Bucky knows that when Steve does, he should listen.

“‘Bout the cakes?” he jokes weakly, quiet.

Steve shakes his head, but he’s got a little smile. It falls as he says, “I dunno, I…” He takes a deep breath, looking down at his folded legs. “I never really imagined I’d ever be anybody’s husband. Who knows if I’ll be any good at it.”

“Well first,” Bucky says, “You’re not gonna be anybody’s husband; you’re gonna be mine.” Bucky ignores Steve’s eye roll. “And second, I’m sure you’re gonna be the best husband I’ve ever had.”

“You haven’t been married before,” Steve says, seeming a little frustrated. “It’s not like you have anyone to compare me to.”

“Exactly,” Bucky responds, light and smiling. “And I don’t intend on ever marryin’ anybody else, so you’ll always be my number one.”

Expecting a sarcastic response, Bucky is surprised when Steve doesn’t say anything. Instead, he pulls himself across the bed, curling up next to Bucky. He rests his head on Bucky’s chest and takes his hand. “I love you so much,” Steve says, quiet and tender, looking down at their intertwined fingers.

“I love you, too,” Bucky says as he leans down to press a soft kiss on Steve’s temple. They stay like that for a few minutes, curled up with one another. Bucky closes his eyes, trying to memorize how this feels.

But then he sighs. “I should go,” he says. Steve grunts disapprovingly and presses in closer. “Sam is probably wonderin’ where I am.”

“Don’t want you to go,” Steve mutters, scooting in closer.

“It’d be bad luck if we saw each other in the mornin’.”

“It’s just an old wive’s tale.”

“And,” Bucky adds, solemn. “Tonight may be the last night of my life without your cold feet suckin' up all the warm in the room.”

Steve looks up, all wide-eyed and innocent. “So you _want_ me to get cold feet tonight?” he asks, fluttering those long lashes.

Bucky sighs. “I’ll get your weird microwave socks out before I go,” he says. “Since keepin’ your feet pipin’ hot is now my main priority.”

Steve laughs as Bucky smiles and they’re getting married tomorrow. They’re getting married.

**…**

“Bucky,” Steve says, reaching out and taking Bucky’s hands in his. He looks so handsome in his tuxedo, fitted perfectly to his body. His shoes are shiny and his thin black tie is perfect. He’s perfect. And so is this moment, the two of them standing underneath a chuppah together — the one religious aspect of their civil marriage ceremony — with a Justice of the Peace with them, Sam standing behind Steve as his best man, and Dum Dum as Bucky’s. Their friends and family are in the audience, and the _Top Chef_ crew is filming the whole thing. It’s weird, but it’s theirs, and it’s perfect.

“Bucky,” Steve repeats, maybe sensing that Bucky’s mind was jumping around, maybe just trying to psych himself up for his vows. “I didn’t know how to start my vows because at first, the thought of getting to marry you seemed so overwhelmingly wonderful that I couldn’t figure out how to express how I feel about you. Then, I couldn’t think of anything appropriate enough to say in front of your family and cable television.” There’s laughs from the crowd. Bucky can see Sam’s eyes sparkling behind Steve. Bucky himself is grinning, eyes brimming with tears.

“So I turned to what I know best: food. Remember that week where I kept baking different kinds of biscuits? Cheddar and chive and black pepper?” Bucky nods. “I hope they were good, because that’s what I was doing instead of writing these vows.”

Bucky mouths, “They were great” and Steve smiles.

“So, I’ll keep things brief. I promise I’ll be patient, and try not to be so stubborn. Except when I’m obviously right. I promise to never try to feed you calf’s heart again, even when you’ve never even tried it, so you don’t know how good it can be, especially when I make it.” There are more laughs, and Bucky still smiles, even though calf’s heart is _gross_ no matter how fancy Steve tries to make it. “But more than anything, I promise that I will love you, and no matter how many bad days, late nights and tough times we have, I will always go to bed grateful to be sharing it with you.” He smiles as he adds, “Especially when you warm up my cold feet.”

Bucky takes a deep breath, realizing that it’s his turn. Steve’s vows were perfect and personal, and Bucky kind of can’t believe he has to follow that. Despite that, he starts talking.

“When I first saw you on TV, I never once thought that I was lookin’ at the love of my life. Instead I just thought you were a talented chef, who happened to be hilarious and super hot.” Steve rolls his eyes, and Bucky is struck with the firm conviction that this is right, and that nothing could change this moment. Steve was himself, and Bucky was himself, and neither were changing for each other. They just loved each other. And it was perfect.

“And then, when I saw you in person for the first time, I didn’t see my future husband. Instead I just saw someone who I didn’t think would hire me.

“But you took a chance on me. You let me behind your bar and into your life. You took a chance, lettin’ me be creative, and to work with you. Lettin’ me become your friend. You took a chance, the night you asked me out and kissed me for the first time. And you took a chance by sayin’ yes when I proposed to you.

“And so my promise to you is this: I will always bet on you. So far, your intuition has never been wrong. By takin’ a chance on me time and time again, you helped me more than you could have ever known. You helped me, burned and battered, find my love of life by loving you.” Blinking back tears, Bucky pauses to take a breath, watching Steve watching him. He will his voice not to break. “So I’m yours. I’m yours as your bartender, your partner, your friend, and now your husband. I’m ready to follow you through whatever happens to us, because I know that it’ll all be okay as long as I’m with you.” He breathes. “You bet on me, and I’m bettin’ on you because you make me the luckiest guy in the world.”

There’s a moment of quiet after Bucky finishes. Steve — whose face remained passive throughout Bucky’s speech — breaks into a smile. “Jeez, Buck,” he says, letting go of Bucky’s right hand to wipe away a tear. “You really outdid me.”

“In your defense, those were really good biscuits.”

The crowd laughs. Bucky hears Dum Dum sobbing behind him, and desperately hopes that the camera guys are getting that on film. But everything else besides Steve seems a little unimportant right now. Everything else fades away when he sees Steve, his Steve, smiling at him.

**…**

Rings on their fingers, Steve lunges over to kiss Bucky before the Justice of the Peace finishes saying, “You may now kiss your husband.” Bucky laughs against Steve’s mouth as he kisses him back and the crowd cheers.

But then Steve unexpectedly tries to dip him. Bucky stumbles back, pulling Steve down with him as he topples over, landing right on his ass. Bucky laughs, “Remember what you said yesterday about draggin’ me down with ya?”

“Just wanted to show you I’d follow you, too,” Steve whispers in Bucky’s ear. “Even to the floor.”

So struck with Steve, and the perfect mess that his marriage now is, Bucky just pulls Steve over and kisses him again.

**…**

“I could’ve done better,” Steve says, picking at the “mojo” trout the Red Team made. Apparently Mojo meant there was something lime-y about the marinade they made for the trout, but Steve says they were just referencing Austin Powers, since the dryness of the trout implies that they started cooking it in the 1960s.

“You’re just jealous that my team are the obvious winners,” Bucky responds, slipping a piece of perfectly medium rare piece of Brazilian-style garlic picanha steak onto Steve’s plate. “And,” Bucky adds, “I was never gonna let you spend our whole weddin' sweatin’ in the kitchen.”

“So this was all just a ploy to keep me from doing my job?”

“Well that, and to save money for our honeymoon.” Bucky wiggles his eyebrows a few times. Steve grins, cutting up the meat. After the ceremony they’ll head to the Top Chef Judge’s Table, where Steve will give a signed cookbook to the winner, along with an invitation to spend a day mixing drinks and cooking at the Howling Commando, and Padma will ask someone to pack their knives and go. But after a night in a New York hotel, they’re heading to Hawaii for three glorious weeks of sightseeing, eating, beaches, and sex. Probably a lot more sex than anything else. “Besides,” Bucky adds, “It probably would’ve been a conflict of interest if you catered our weddin’,” Bucky says innocently as he spears a perfectly spiced green bean with his fork.

Steve groans. “Can’t believe you won’t let me live that down. We’re _married_ now.”

“Say that again,” Bucky says, abandoning his green bean and asshole act simultaneously.

“You’re ridiculous,” Steve says with a huff, looking away. But then his eyes dart back to Bucky, and he’s smiling by the time he says, “And we’re married.”

Bucky reaches out and cups Steve’s neck, pulling him close. They kiss, sweet and lingering. When Bucky pulls back, he notices Steve’s glass is almost empty. “Another Tom Collins?” he asks.

“Sure,” Steve responds. “But first, another round,” he adds as he leans back in for another kiss.

**…**

_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that wasn't too sappy for everyone! But if you do like sap, I'd suggest you follow me at whtaft.tumblr.com, where I frequently post sappy things about Steve, Bucky and occasionally, myself.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, and want to keep up with my writing and general complaining about life, you can follow me at whtaft.tumblr.com!
> 
> SPOILER: Check out this [fanart by Katharoses](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10152491) and [reblog it on Tumblr!](http://samthebirdbae.tumblr.com/post/158087513023/for-whtafts-wonderfully-sweet-fic-kiss-the-cook)


End file.
